Practical Engagements
by Sophie Rae
Summary: Colonel Fitzwilliam shares a story about Darcy's past with Elizabeth, just hours before his cousin proposes. This single breach in confidence changes the futures for all three involved. It's a story about falling in love, falling out of love, and sometimes just falling. Will post Chapter 28 next week. (Note added in most recent chapter.)
1. Chapter 1

_This variation begins at Rosings, but veers off course when Elizabeth decides to accept Darcy's proposal, thanks in large part to the unwitting influence of Colonel Fitzwilliam. This story is as much about Elizabeth and Darcy's torturous road to love, as it is about Colonel Fitzwilliam's parallel, purgative journey. The perspective is omniscient, meandering amongst the three main characters' view points, and the voice is reminiscent of, though by no means replicable, to Austen's._

_Chapter One: Truth and Consequences_

Elizabeth Bennet was not happy for one very simple reason—Jane was not happy. She realized this as she rambled through the hedgerows of Rosings Park, oblivious to the bloom of spring all around her, and thought of Jane's most recent letter. The tone of the letter bothered Elizabeth, more than the topics. Heavy words had weighted it down, proving her sister had not written in high spirits.

Jane was still ensconced in London, caring for her younger cousins, conversing with her favorite aunt, and apparently carrying on in the same subdued manner she always did, but something light and cheery had been missing from her descriptions and anecdotes in her correspondence with her sister. And Elizabeth thought she knew the reason for Jane's lack of cheer, that thing that was only hinted at in the empty spaces between the words—the persistent absence of Mr. Charles Bingley in her sister's life. The lingering malaise made Elizabeth worry that Jane would never overcome her feelings for that man, leaving her tender heart wilted forever.

Suddenly, out of the still afternoon, Elizabeth heard swift footfalls from behind. During her last few walks in the park she had unexpectedly met with Mr. Darcy. On this particular day, she hoped that the quickening approach was not him. In her present mood, his presence would be doubly odious since she suspected he had played a small part in separating Jane from Mr. Bingley.

Harried, she hastened her stride and heard the unknown person likewise increase his speed. The pursuer called out her name and instantly ended her worries. It was the voice of Colonel Fitzwilliam, not his cousin. Elizabeth sighed, slowed her step, and forced a smile as the colonel came abreast with her.

"I did not know you ever walked this way before," she said.

With a laugh on his merry lips he explained that he was making his annual tour of the park. He offered her his arm and asked if he might accompany her, as he would enjoy the scenery much better with her as a constant accessory to it. Tepidly Elizabeth accepted his arm, deciding to turn around and claim she was just about to head back to the parsonage. As much as she thought well of the colonel, she only had thoughts for Jane today.

For a few minutes the pair talked pleasantly of everything and nothing. Elizabeth's mind continued to stray into reflections on Jane's melancholy and the machinations of the likes of Caroline Bingley, and possibly even Mr. Darcy, in causing the heartbreak. She hardly heard the colonel's melodious regaling of his adventures at Rosings as a young boy and with the errant, empathic wonderings foremost on her mind, actually cut him off with an abrupt question.

"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday colonel? And your cousin, too, I presume?"

"Yes—that is unless Darcy puts it off again," he replied, not a whisper of reproach for her interruption in his voice. "I am entirely dependent on him. He arranges things just as he pleases, and I am pleased to be at his disposal."

"I do not think I know of man who so enjoys pleasing himself by displeasing others, or at least, by doing just as he pleases without regard for what his dependents think."

"He likes to have his own way, but so do we all. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others. Because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence."

"In my opinion, the younger son of an Earl, can know very little of either. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you ever been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?"

"These are penetrating questions—and perhaps I do not have many hardships of that nature. But, if you had asked when a lack of money had prevented me from going with _whomever_ I chose or procuring the hand of someone I had a fancy for, I could answer very directly on that account."

The colonel's levity lessened and he cast Elizabeth a meaningful look, which brought a blush to her cheeks.

"Younger sons cannot marry where they like," he said softly.

Elizabeth, rosy and pale, did not want to seem too affected by his allusions. In truth she did not think she _was_ affected by them and quickly replied, "Unless where they like are women of fortune, which I think they very often do."

"Sadly, our upbringing forms us with certain tastes, which are hard to overcome the craving for, even when induced by other temptations. There are few of my rank who can afford to marry without some attention to money."

The colonel's eyes lingered on her face and Elizabeth, attempting to hide her embarrassment, laughed, "And pray, what is the going rate of an Earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I would wager you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds."

The colonel paused his step and smiled a little sadly. "Fifty thousand? And what do you think is the price of a ruby?"

They stared at each other for a moment, a sudden hush in the air, before the colonel sighed and began walking again. His voice danced when he spoke.

"Darcy will not have to choose between love and money, though. He is fortune's son in that regard."

"I wonder your cousin does not marry already," Elizabeth mused, matching the return of ease in the colonel's voice. "He would then always have someone whose pleasure he could thwart, someone at his infinite disposal. But perhaps, his sister suffices for now."

"Actually, no, that is an advantage which he must divide with me. We are joint guardians of Miss Darcy."

"And pray, what sort of girl is Miss Darcy? Does she give you much trouble? Girls of that age can often be a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like her own way."

The colonel suddenly looked worried and Elizabeth thought she must not be far off the mark.

"You need not be frightened," she replied, waving her hand. "I have never heard any harm of her; indeed, she is one of the most tractable creatures to some ladies of my acquaintance, Miss Bingley, and her sister Mrs. Hurst. I think I have heard you say you know them?"

"I know them a little. I know their brother better. Mr. Bingley is such a pleasant, amiable gentleman, a great and needed friend to Darcy."

"Yes," said Elizabeth drily. "Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley and takes a prodigious care of him."

"Care of him—yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him. From something he told me in our journey here, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to Darcy. But, I am only supposing it to be Bingley, as he is the sort to get into this kind of scrape. Of course it is all conjecture."

"What is all conjecture?"

"It is a circumstance Darcy would wish not to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family it would be unpleasant."

"You may rest assured of my discretion."

"And remember, it is only a supposition. All Darcy told me is that he congratulates himself on recently saving a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, without mentioning names or particulars. And as Bingley is as amiable as he is impulsive, and as the two spent almost the entirety of the summer together, I think my conjecture is very likely the truth."

Elizabeth's interest and ire were immediately peaked as thoughts of Jane's despair flooded back into her mind.

"Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?"

"No, only that there were some very strong objections against the lady."

"What arts did he use to separate them?"

"He did not talk of his arts, surely," Colonel Fitzwilliam teased, noticing the fresh burst of color on her cheeks, mystified by its appearance. "He only told me what I have now told you."

Elizabeth made no answer to this, and walked on, her heart swelling and her skin reddening. The colonel watched her with unabashed concern—and admiration. After a few moments of open wonder he could not refrain from asking her what made her so thoughtful, successfully silencing the question about why her complexion glowed so temptingly.

"I am thinking of what you told me. Your cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Who was he to be the judge?"

"You believe his interference was officious?"

"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the rightness of his friend's inclination, or why on his judgment alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy."

"Perhaps not, but as we discussed, Darcy does as he pleases, does he not? And, there is another matter, which he would be loathe to know that even I know of; wherein he made it his business to intercede after a very imprudent marriage had taken place. I think he feels it his duty to curtail any match that might end in such a way as the one he had to save after the nuptials had already occurred."

This recital gave Elizabeth's quiet wrath an unexpected pause; a reprieve of curiosity. Of what was the colonel speaking? She could not in good manners ask him to elaborate, especially as he had already admitted that Mr. Darcy was ignorant of his apprised knowledge.

Elizabeth had no idea how animatedly her thoughts were flying over her face, how soft and hard her expression was, how brightly her eyes glowed, but Colonel Fitzwilliam did. He observed her, was transfixed by the becoming passion enhancing her features, and was compelled to speak. Darcy and he had never openly discussed their mutual attraction for Miss Bennet, but he had never seen his cousin so enamored of any one lady, and having disavowed any claim to her affections this very stroll, felt obligated to put forth his most beloved cousin's character.

"Miss Bennet, I feel I am bound to explain, and I must again request your promise of secrecy on this point, most especially as it involves a close acquaintance of Miss Darcy's."

"Miss Darcy?"

"The very same one. I shall not divulge her friend's name, but this certain lady was in fact a gentlewoman's daughter, raised with the expectation of a good marriage and possessing a solid dowry. As fate would have it, however, her father's estate was entailed away from the female line and she was, alas, an only child. Such is life. Unfortunately, not many years ago, her mother and father died suddenly of an unknown illness. The heir apparent of her father's home, still single, offered her his hand. The lady refused, for I think she must have felt some resentment towards the gentleman. He was so offended, however, that he forced her to leave her childhood home immediately, only the day after her parent's internment."

Elizabeth's breath caught and the colonel asked if she wanted him to change the topic.

"That is for you to decide," she said, banishing the strange fear which had gripped her heart, "but I am not alarmed by anything you have said."

Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed and reluctantly continued, ""Very well. This young lady moved from acquaintance to acquaintance, and not long after, met a man with whom she fell in love. They eloped because her friends either said nothing or said too much in way of opposition. In a very short time, the man had drained her of her fortune and left her. She was alone, without money, and very soon with a child. This is how, I have gathered, Darcy found her. He had been acquainted with her for many years prior, and chance brought her to his attention. Sadly, she and the child's living conditions were such that the babe did not survive. My cousin was able to procure for her a position as a lady's companion, and that is her occupation at present."

Colonel Fitzwilliam finished and discovered that they were already at the parsonage's gate. He suddenly wanted to get away, and quickly entreating her once more for her silence, took his leave.

As he turned into the lane, he cast a backward glance at Elizabeth. She was not looking at him and he studied her bowed head, her slender shoulders, and pretty figure. He was uncertain why he had felt so strongly about divulging his cousin's private actions before a relatively unknown acquaintance, but there was something in her manner and face that had made him trust her. His admiration for her only accentuated his desire to be forthcoming, even confiding.

Disappointed, he cursed those circumstances which hindered him from engaging her affection in a serious way. If only she had fifty thousand pounds—or in truth, with her charms, he would take her for far less than such a sum. Indeed, his commission as an officer provided some allowance, though nothing extravagant. Still, her dearth of a dowry was no trifling matter for one so accustomed to a certain expectation of comfort.

Kicking a pebble, he sped up his pace. Fortunately he was not the type to wallow in self-pity. He had done his honor-bound duty to Miss Bennet by laying open his intentions, or rather, the lack thereof. Surely, there must be an heiress with at least half the wit and charm as Elizabeth Bennet. With his usual optimism, he entertained himself all through the walk back to Rosings, and even into the late afternoon, with fantasies of wealthy women who had familiar eyes and lively ways.

So content were Fitzwilliam's musings that afternoon, that he barely noticed Darcy's agitated behavior, until that gentleman suddenly stood up at the outset of the tea hour, just as their Hunsford guests were entering the drawing room. Amused, the colonel watched his cousin stalk over to Mrs. Collins and converse with the parson's wife before any of the other guests had crossed the threshold. He raised his brow as Darcy turned toward their aunt and claimed that urgent (and clearly fictitious) business called him away.

Fitzwilliam only had to wonder at the abrupt departure for the short length of time it took for the rest of the visitors to collect in the room. He settled in next to the morose looking Mrs. Jenkins, who fanned his ever morose cousin Anne, the sunlight filtering warmly through the nearby window. Quietly chuckling to himself, he wondered if he might abandon this gathering as well and join Darcy—whom he assumed had fled to the far corners of the upstairs bedrooms to take a nap.

Staring quizzically at the strange contortions of Mr. Collins' torso as he bowed to Lady Catherine, the colonel did not see the resolute figure of Darcy marching down the front steps. If he had, he might not have been laughing.

_Reviews much appreciated. Cheers!  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2: The Invisible Hand_

Elizabeth entered Hunsford, more than a little distracted. Miserable reflections swirled in her mind and disrupted her spirits. She immediately threw herself into the solace of her own bed chamber. When Charlotte knocked on the door only a half hour later, Elizabeth begged her friend to excuse her from the afternoon events. Mrs. Collins' shrewd eyes narrowed in on her, remarking that she did appear unwell and asking if she desired any company. Wanting to be alone, Elizabeth feigned a headache and professed that some rest was all the remedy she required. Satisfied, Charlotte left with her family; her husband squawking about punctuality.

Falling onto her bed, Elizabeth knew that sleep was impossible. Her thoughts flitted about frantically, enervated by the recent things she had learned. She thought of her sister, and her sad predicament, but more she thought of someone she had never even met. The sad tale of the forsaken lady moved her deeply. The heroic role of Mr. Darcy baffled her. She struggled to fit this display of kindness into her previous understanding of his essential makeup.

She wondered if Colonel Fitzwilliam had invented the story, or whether it was more likely that he had replaced his cousin's name for his own, urged on to conceal his actions in an attempt to justify Darcy's character; his motivation springing from modesty and familial pride. For it seemed evident to her that she had injudiciously revealed her low opinion of Mr. Darcy to one of his closest friends. Liking the logic, though circular it was, behind this last assumption, Elizabeth cried out to the empty room, "Yes! That must be it!"

Unfortunately as soon as she had declared her theory to be true, it sounded ridiculous. She twisted her mouth into a frown as she felt a tug toward resignation. She knew she had no reason to doubt the veracity of the colonel's version of events. It was absurd to impute him with dishonesty, merely to enshrine him in modesty. No, every aspect of that tragic history must be as the colonel had described it. Mr. Darcy's behavior toward that woman was nothing, but gracious and honorable.

How could that good, good man be the same Mr. Darcy she knew? Certainly the colonel's story sketched his cousin's character in the most gallant of lines; the most laudatory and selfless—the most unlike Mr. Darcy. For several minutes Elizabeth struggled to reconcile this flattering picture of him against the portrait inspired by his conduct in regards to her sister. In that case, Mr. Darcy had embodied all that was officious, interfering, and arrogant.

Elizabeth's sense of justice demanded that she be as unprejudiced as possible in resolving the question of what type of man Mr. Darcy truly was, but her deep dislike of him challenged the durability of that inner call for impartiality. Lying on the bed, she battled within herself, changing camps at every turn. All this mental back and forth resulted in some imagined dizziness. At last her mind stilled and trust in her own judgments won the war, explaining away that one good deed in Mr. Darcy as an aberration. The tranquility did not last long, though, for on ending her contemplations of the unexpected savior of the story, she immediately began to wonder about the unknown victim.

How close the woman's past seemed to reflect her own! Would their futures be the same also? Elizabeth had never regretted turning down Mr. Collins' address. Never had she considered her mother's point of view, or gave pause for her mother's incessant complaints. Yet this sorrowful story had cut Elizabeth's confidence with a force she had not expected.

Unbidden came the images of her future self, married to a man who would never really love her and who would eventually leave her—and then far gloomier ghosts of the hazy future appeared—the specters of her disgraced sisters, of her dear Jane, cast out from the environs of Longbourn with nowhere to flee and no real shelter when their father died. Could any of them depend upon the mercy of their neighbors? Even her benevolent Uncle and Aunt Gardiner would be unable to fully care and provide for five young women. What should happen to them all if the worst should come to pass? How bright had been that nameless lady's plans before all her joy had crumbled into ash?

All of a sudden, Elizabeth sat up. She could not wallow in these miserable thoughts any longer. She must do something. She needed some distraction. From the corner of her eye she saw her stack of letters. For a moment, she thought of exasperating herself further against Mr. Darcy by reading again all of the correspondence she had received from Jane, but she swiftly disregarded that plan. She needed a pleasant distraction and that sort of perusal would only annoy her.

Her gaze trailed further along the wall to the pile of books lumped into the corner. Instantly her face broke into a grin and she jumped off the bed, choosing the silliest novel within reach. Bouncing down the stairs to Charlotte's favorite back parlor, she cracked the spine and only glanced up long enough to make sure she wasn't sitting down on a sewing needle.

Elizabeth was two pages into the second chapter when she heard a visitor in the entryway. The sunlight leaking through the window told her it was late for a caller. Setting aside her book, she smoothed her hair and readied her mind, wondering if it was Colonel Fitzwiliam. In the midst of composing herself for that gentleman, her spirits were suddenly discomposed by the entrance of a very different one—Mr. Darcy.

He asked if she was still ill, attributing a concern for her health as the reason for this unexpected visit. She replied with a short, indeterminate negative and sat down, determined to leave conversation up to him. He would not sit, but moved about the room pacing, always turning back towards her, with an odd expression on his face.

With detached wonder she watched his peculiar behavior. Beads of sweat gathered around his dark brow and his cheeks were flushed. She was on the verge of asking if _he_ was ill, when he marched up to her and spoke.

"I must confess that I deceived you, Miss Bennet."

"You deceived me?"

"Yes."

Elizabeth waited for him to say more, but he remained strangely silent.

"Is that all the reply I am to expect, sir?" she asked confusedly.

"No." He took a long, agitated breath. "I must also confess that I love you."

Elizabeth stared back, nonplussed, and her astonishment, combined with all the worry and anger she had felt these last few hours, made her quite forget herself. "Surely sir you are mistaken. I think you are ill."

If he had been expecting a particular response from her, this was not it. He shook his head and laughed. "Love is a sickness to be sure, madam, but I assure you, I am most certainly not mistaken."

He laughed again, with a slightly mad edge, and began to list off all ways he knew love clouded the mind and addled the brain, all the reasonable objections to the ludicrous match of the master of Pemberley to an unremarkable country squire's daughter.

Mortified by her outburst, Elizabeth failed to truly hear these reasons, and by the time she gained enough composure to do so, she nearly lost her composure again.

"My family, my friends, nay, even my own better judgment wish my feelings for you were mistaken," Darcy continued on, retracing his frantic path about the room. "But I can no longer deny my feelings. I know I will be aligning myself with those whom I would barely recognize in polite society; that I will be flouting precedent, perhaps even propriety, in marrying you. Yet those realities mean nothing against this one reality—my admiration for you." He stopped his distracted steps and faced her. "At this point my only mistake would be to continue to deny my heart. Please, reward my struggles by consenting to be my wife."

Elizabeth blinked once and then twice at him, before, in one fluid motion, abruptly standing up and turning towards the window. As she was forming her response—a definite negative—she was accosted once again by the unwanted image of Jane, forlorn and alone with a child, and to her utter dismay found herself stammering out a very different reply.

"I must—that is—I—I accept Mr. Darcy."

From a faraway place Elizabeth heard the words, and it was as though some unseen force had nudged her speak them, whether the invisible hand was of Providence or mischief she knew not. But even in this hazy moment, she knew, despite her misgivings, despite her mortification that she had said yes to Mr. Darcy. She had done it! She had accepted him! That broken picture of Jane still lingered in the fore of her mind, and with a sinking finality Elizabeth knew she would not retract her acceptance. "Oh why had the colonel told that story," thought she, "And why had he not proposed instead?"

Darcy was carefully watching her, real apprehension replacing his professed anxiety. He wondered if it was just nerves, and hesitantly soothed, "My apologies if this event overwhelms you, as it most profoundly overwhelms me."

Elizabeth started at the tenderness of his tone. She could not yet bring herself to speak, but found she could turn and look at the man who would now be her husband. Her bewildered, bright eyes studied him, her mind at a loss to understand him. He smiled at her in a warm way that he had often done so before, a familiar intensity to his gaze, and she attempted to return his grin with an awkward smile.

"Loveliest Elizabeth," he said in that same soft melody. She blushed and looked down. "I am eager to make our arrangement known, but I believe it would be imprudent to precipitate my departure from Rosings, or yours, with an announcement. I am certain you have been informed—possibly by my Aunt Catherine herself—of her ladyship's misguided belief in an attachment existing between my cousin and me."

She flicked her eyes to him and nodded.

"Then you understand the delay. I am glad of it."

He smiled at her again. She appeared so calm and yet so nervous, her countenance rendered more beautiful by the strange energy. It was all he could do to stop himself from taking her into his arms. "My dear I plan on leaving tomorrow, and weather and you permitting I will go directly to your father to ask for your hand."

Her eyes widened in alarm, a response tumbling out of her mouth in a breathless exclamation. "No, sir, I think I must be the one to tell my father, at least give me that right."

He searched her flushed face before replying that he would be happy to allow her to relate the news to her father, as he knew she was his particular favorite.

Elizabeth had long ago deemed Mr. Darcy an acute observer, but she was nevertheless surprised that the gentleman had noticed this delicate relationship. How many months had he been harboring the tender sentiments which he had so recently confessed? Whatever he was, he was an oddity indeed. Recollecting herself she thanked him, keeping her gaze fixed on the garden. Darcy drew his eyes to the window also and the two watched the flight of a sparrow around an oak tree, their thoughts as dissimilar as their expression—the gentleman's glowing with serene delight; the lady's dimmed with frustrated wonder.

Elizabeth was growing uncomfortable with the companionable quiet and searched her mind for something to say, coming short of a topic. Fortunately Mr. Darcy did not. Tiring of his reverie, he asked if she still planned to remain in Kent as he would wish to avoid delaying their announcement for too long. He even went so far as to offer to drive her to her father's home tomorrow.

This was too much for Elizabeth, and she calmly begged him to let her stick to her original plan and leave with Maria Lucas in a fortnight. On a sudden inspiration, she added, "Miss Lucas must have a companion with whom to travel, and if we are to keep this news from leaking out to your aunt's ears, I ought not to travel with her two nephews in such a familiar way. Her ladyship would undoubtedly wonder and demand the reason I accompanied you and Colonel Fitzwilliam."

Something twinged in Elizabeth's breast as she spoke the colonel's name, a desire to spend her days with him and his easy manners instead of his cousin's harsher ones, but the colonel had made it clear he had no designs on her, and in any case, she had just agreed to marry Mr. Darcy. Confused, Elizabeth forced her mind into the present; such reflections ought not to be entertained.

Darcy saw all the logic behind his betrothed's explanation (and none of her desperate falsity) and readily agreed. Closing the small distance between them, compelling her to meet his deep eyes, he went on, "You must know that I feel as though I have been waiting too long, and being a man of action, these months of indecision have seemed interminable. I will wait until your scheduled return to Hertfordshire, but I do hope you will concede with me that a long engagement is neither necessary nor desirable."

He paused and lifted her limp hand, pressing his lips onto her skin. "I hope very much it will not be long before I can call you my wife."

"Of...of course," she stammered, hardly knowing what she had said.

He kissed her palm again, before quickly murmuring a farewell and exiting the parlor.

Elizabeth watched him depart in a vapid stupor. For several minutes she stood at the window in the same stunned attitude. That she should be engaged to Mr. Darcy! That he had been in love with her for these many months, so in love as to rationalize or forget all the objections that he had believed had been adequate reason for him to separate his friend from her sister—objections which must appear even greater up against his standing and situation. How had this come to be!

Elizabeth began circling the room, agitated and upset. She could not catch a single thought; they all rushed through her mind as a cyclone in the water. Hearing the carriage wheels announce the arrival of her hosts, she fled up the stairs to her bedroom, well aware that she was unequal to the task of concealing her troubled mind from her very observant friend.

Alone in her room, she lay in her bed again, fully dressed. Fantastic thoughts whirled in her mind. To be sure, he was a proud and arrogant man, who made no secret about his disdain for her family. Some overwhelming call to duty had bowed her down before Darcy, had tied her hands to his Midas future, and she would be forever bound to him.

How could she have consented to his proposal? Struggling to resurrect that vivid image of an impoverished Jane, she could not remember what had induced her to accept the man. The man that would be her husband! The father to her children! Oh what would her own father say? How would he react? Would her dear father be disappointed in his favorite daughter's choice? Would he respect her sacrifice of love, for security? If only she had her sister Jane to confide in, but that would have to wait.

Jane! Elizabeth's mind grasped hold of her lovely face. Mr. Darcy could not object to a renewal of Mr. Bingley's addresses, if that gentleman still desired to seek out her sister. How could he? What utter hypocrisy would that be? Her certainty wavered as she wondered if Mr. Darcy might yet justify such officiousness. Clearly he had been able to do so thus far. She decided her only hope was in Jane's natural charms counteracting the advice Mr. Bingley had received from his friend. If the two former lovers were thrown together often they must end in each other's arms. And trusting that Mr. Darcy intended on maintaining his close friendship with Mr. Bingley, she vowed to have Jane and her Netherfield companion thrown together as often as possible.

The thought calmed Elizabeth, but it could not cure the ache. And as the night progressed, it seemed nothing ever would.

The twilight melted into midnight and Elizabeth spent the dark hours silencing sobs and shedding tears. Her greatest pain lay in the loss of her dreams to share a marriage based on mutual respect and affection. The groom had none of the former, and the bride held none of the latter. Every so often a subdued cry came when she found herself wishing that circumstances were different, that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been the one to whom she had said yes. She knew she was not in love with the colonel, but she could not even say that she _liked_ Mr. Darcy.

It was a very cold, very lonely night in Hunsford.

~_0_~

On the other end of Rosings Park, Colonel Henry Fitzwilliam paced his chambers, wondering at Darcy's odd behavior. His cousin's mood throughout the evening had been distracted, impatient, and yet somewhat happy. In manner and tone Darcy had seemed himself, but in expression, he had been _different_. A difference the colonel could not define, but could remember—it was the same subtle change he had perceived in his brother Philip after he had proposed to his then betrothed and current wife. Had Darcy's nap been that satisfying? Had a letter of good tidings arrived? Was the colonel just imagining something when nothing was there? For Fitzwilliam could not contemplate the only other option; could not conceive of it even in his own colorful imagination. He could not, because he dared not.

After restively walking around his dressing room, and taking generous drinks from an open decanter of port, he was able to retire to his bed. Nearly three sheets to the wind, he fell into a sleep that was a little less than actually passing out.

~_0_~

As for Fitzwilliam's enigmatic cousin, he slept more restfully than he had since coming into Kent. The reason was simple. Darcy had finally made Elizabeth his, he had finally proposed.

For months and months he had been attracted to her, always belittling the power of her allure, counting it as nothing more than a passing fancy, his days spent trying to forget her and his nights spent dreaming, trying to remember her. When he had arrived at Rosings this year, he had considered it a cruel act of fate that she should be delivered into his presence without her family, for there was nothing to counteract his admiration, nothing to diminish her charms or shield his eyes from the brightness of her pull. Still, he had tried to ignore her, to forget her as he thought he had finally achieved only weeks before his arrival at his aunt's. And for almost a full week he had been deluded into congratulating himself on blocking her from his thoughts, choosing to overlook the nightly appearance of her in his dreams. But, that night when the Collinses and she had come to dine at Rosings, and he had watched, at first with curiosity and then with alarm at the way Fitzwilliam was admiring and engaging her, Darcy's resolve against pursuing any real designs on Elizabeth Bennet had suffered a blow from which it, or indeed _he,_ had never recovered.

That night, blessed as it had been cursed, Darcy had realized that although Fitzwilliam would never allow affection to lead _him_ into a penniless matrimony, there were other men, men in Darcy's position, who would be able to let fancy dictate their choice in a spouse, men who would not willfully, rigidly replace the word inspiring with charming, tolerable with striking, or most importantly, love with attraction. And Elizabeth would at some point say yes to such a man. How could he allow that? He would be jealous of another man for his entire life.

Watching the colonel banter and laugh with Elizabeth for a single evening had been enough torture for Darcy to decide that a lifetime of such impotent envy would end in his own destruction. And then, as he had worried whether he could entrap Elizabeth as easily and effortlessly as Fitzwilliam had done, Elizabeth had teasingly invited him to come and court her, to practice speaking with her. He had smiled at her veiled invitation, and had done all he could to answer such a playful, apt request. His courtship had been guarded, owing to his aunt's vigilant eye, and his crumbling, but not destroyed, resolve.

After putting off leaving Rosings for more than ten days, he had made his decision. Marry Elizabeth he would. At any rate, it would have been ungentlemanly to leave without fulfilling the hopes and wishes which his attentions had undoubtedly inspired in his lady. And now, she had said yes, now she would be his. Those eyes, so fine and delicate, would look upon him with love and adoration. With a smile on his lips, Darcy slept on—knowing he would never again banish the remembrance of her in his dreams once morning came.

_Note: I did post this in a version before, about two years ago, but I have added to it (the middle especially). If you have a moment, let me know how you like it. I just never know what inspires someone to review. I wonder if my P&P stories are a little too...bland. I don't know. La vie s'en va. Cheers and thanks to those who do review._


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3: The Social Contract_

Elizabeth woke up from the bright, April sunlight streaming through the window. She stretched out her arm, dozily wondering why she was still dressed in her afternoon clothes, before the recollection of yesterday's events rushed back to her and she bolted upright. She jumped off the mattress, stumbling slightly as the weight of last night's tears made her eyelids droop and her shoulders heavy, and started to wash the sleeplessness from her face.

When the third splash of clean water failed to invigorate her, she decided that she needed some clean air. Tripping down the stairs, she grabbed a muffin and made her excuses to Charlotte and Mr. Collins, who were already in the dining room breaking their fasts. Charlotte exclaimed at her friend's tired appearance, but accepted Elizabeth's assurance that she needed some fresh air and exercise now that her headache had subsided.

For almost an hour, Elizabeth roamed through the park, allowing the warm sun and sweet spring air to revive her. As she wove through the verdant gardens, she felt the puffiness in her eyes deflate and her spirits rise. Nature and a new dawn did wonders for her, inspiring her with newfound hope. Perhaps she could escape from her engagement, force Mr. Darcy to regret his decision. She allowed her imagination to wander in the same hapless manner her feet were doing. It relieved some of her unhappy tension. Several times she almost laughed out loud at her own macabre musings. Her delightful dream of cutting off ties with Mr. Darcy was interrupted, however, by the sudden appearance of the man himself.

When she had first set out on her walk, she had purposefully avoided those jaunts where she had previously met him, and therefore was disappointed that he had found her, but she stopped at his approach and tried not to appear _unhappy_.

"I had thought you might go to our favorite spot to walk, as we have hitherto done," he said with a smirk. "Indeed, I have been wandering the grove for sometime in search of you. Will you do me the honor of giving this letter to your father?"

Elizabeth took the letter, nodding. It had just occurred to her that she had been completely blind in regards to Mr. Darcy's attentions. Their favorite spots to walk? Would she ever be able to trust her own judgments again? She noticed Darcy watching her with a quizzical stare and tried as best she could to laugh off her obvious absence of mind, swiftly changing the topic.

"So you plan to leave Kent this morning?"

"Yes, I have business in town."

"Will it be interesting?"

"Not any more or less than it usually is."

"Do you often go to town on business?"

"Not any more or less than other men in my position."

"I hope it's not too taxing."

"Not at all."

Darcy let her redirect the conversation for a few more answers and questions in the same vein, but eventually led it back to his original purpose. She was still acting so odd, so timid. He shook his head and gestured at the envelope in her hand.

"You have not commented on the letter, though. I hope it is not too forward or unconventional. I never gathered that your father would be offended by a letter, as I plan on requesting his blessing in person as soon as may be possible. Naturally, as I said last night, I hope we can be married shortly. I see no reason to prolong our engagement."

She muttered some reply he could not understand, and blushed. Darcy watched, wondering again at her behavior, at last shaking away his unnamed apprehension with a happier reminiscence. Her tousled hair and rosy cheeks reminded him of that first morning when she had just arrived at Netherfield. His lips curved into an indulgent smile, which only widened as he heard her agree to his plan.

"I cannot think of any reason to extend our engagement, or decline from giving this letter to my father," she said, still not meeting his eye.

"I am glad you think as I do. I can hardly wait to see how lovely you are on a walk through Pemberley's paths, or if it is even possible for your beauty to be any brighter than it is right now at Rosings." She turned her head away and her modesty emboldened him. "I shall never forget when I saw you enter Netherfield, flushed with same brilliancy of complexion as you now possess. To own the truth, I believe that was the first time I fully appreciated your loveliness."

Elizabeth's blush deepened and she bowed her head further. Of all the compliments to give, she was most surprised by his praising her appearance. Willing herself to say something, anything, she teased, "I must admit I am astonished by your admission. I have it on good authority that you had early withstood my beauty, and considered it hardly tolerable."

He laughed, surprising her, and she peeked at him through downcast lashes.

"You may forbid me from every uttering the word tolerable again, as it is now well settled that I am in fact very much tempted by you."

"Or perhaps we must redefine tolerable and temptation."

"I will give you free rein to redefine anything you like once we are married, dearest Elizabeth."

Darcy brushed a stray petal from her shoulder and Elizabeth froze. There was something so strange about Mr. Darcy touching her with so much familiarity. She nervously scanned the grounds.

"Forgive me," he hesitated. "I did not mean to startle you just now. Shall we walk on?"

She nodded and they both turned toward the quickest route back to the parsonage, as though it had been silently agreed upon. They walked on in silence for a few minutes. Elizabeth could think of nothing to talk about, as her mind was too full and her tongue too thick. Darcy kept his eyes forward, glimpsing at her every so often.

"I did want to inform you," he started when they were within sight of Hunsford, "that per tradition I intend on staying in Hertfordshire's neighborhood for the majority of our engagement."

Elizabeth stared up at him in disbelief. Did Mr. Darcy expect her to issue an invitation for him to lodge at Longbourn? The very idea of him staying with her family was ridiculous. She would have been less anxious about a visitor had the King desired to sleep in her bed. She could not extend the invitation which propriety demanded of her, and a touch of bitterness seeped into her teasing tone.

"I cannot promise my family to be on better behavior than you have already witnessed. In fact, they are perhaps more prone to that comportment, which you noted yesterday had nearly undone your admiration for me, when at Longbourn. I would not wish you to be uncomfortable, or my family to feel overly cautious within the walls of their own home."

She bit on her lip when she saw the censure in Darcy's eye.

"You blame me, for expressing my honest opinions of your family yesterday?"

"I think you were not more eloquent of your admiration of me than you were of my family's faults, and your general misgivings."

"Well, I do apologize if I offended you. I assure you that offense was not my intention. I cannot stand deceit of any kind, and forbearing to tell you of my real struggles would have been to me, a form of dishonesty."

"I see."

Elizabeth could say no more, and they walked on in silence. The final few yards to Hunsford consisted of a rocky hill, the road as bumpy as their tempers. As they climbed, kicking up dust and the nascent debris of spring, Elizabeth caught sight of her own dirty skirts and had a marvelous idea. Hearing her mother's voice chime out the proverbial truth that honey catches more flies than vinegar, she twisted her scowl into a smile and turned.

"Do you intend on telling Mr. Bingley of our engagement before we make a formal announcement?"

"I hadn't really thought about."

"Perhaps, you could stay with him at Netherfield. If I recall, he seems amenable to almost any scheme a friend presents to him."

Darcy, struggling to contain his disappointment in Elizabeth's lack of enthusiasm and grace, narrowed his gaze at his future bride. There had been, from the first moments of her acceptance even, an almost reluctant discontent to her air. Over and over again he had been forced to ignore that slight quiver in her voice, that hint of disgust and disapproval. He could not fathom it, continually pawning it off as a mere consequence of her nerves, but with that note of spite creeping once more into her soft soprano voice, he suddenly wondered if he already knew the cause of her contempt. Could she possibly know of his involvement in separating Bingley from her sister Jane?

Darcy rubbed his finger against his thumb as he walked, using the steepness of the incline as an excuse to decline from immediately responding to her suggestion. In truth, he did not feel any guilt over his success in guiding Bingley away from the indifferent Miss Jane Bennet, believing that he had saved his friend from a family from whom he had not been able to save himself. Elizabeth could not blame him for steering Bingley to another path, a path where the object of his friend's affection would most likely be at least tolerably enamored of him. Surely she did not impute him with wrong doing. If she had, she never would have accepted his proposal. And with that thought, a surge of confidence in his own innocence and the general culpability of cupid's aim, erased his doubt in his betrothed's joy.

For a second more, he wavered. Bingley might still be in love with the eldest Miss Bennet, might suffer some heartache should he be forced into her company. But the pause was only for a breath, the resistance to acquiescing to Elizabeth's plan giving way to greater forces. Like most, when presented with two evils, Darcy chose the lesser of the two. Stay at Netherfield, he would.

The parsonage was now a stone's throw away, just beyond a pretty copse of oaks, and he placed his hand gently on Elizabeth's back, assisting her with the last steps up the hill. His palm lingered on the slope of her spine and then dropped away, the heat of her body still warming his skin as they approached the gate and stopped in front of it.

Elizabeth continued to stare at the ground or up at the sky, to swivel her swimming eyes from side to side, the flecks of light in them darting around as golden fish in clear waters. He found himself mesmerized by her nervous reticence, becoming breathless as he told her that he could find no fault with her plan, of the fond memories he had of Netherfield and her. The torrent of his emotions faded out as a dignified sigh and her gaze kept moving, flitting and glittering up and down and over. Before he had time to think or speak, he reacted. She was in his arms, those eyes of hers that had captivated him for months looming as huge pools of light, as he pressed his lips onto her mouth and kissed her for the first time.

It was daylight for Darcy, the burst of spring and the heat of summer. It was sweet and soft, his bride-to-be so timid but promising, a rosebud waiting to bloom. In his ecstasy he could not sense her shock or taste her reluctance, could not possibly fathom the cold shame and clap of finality that had thundered in her breast at his sudden outburst of passion. To him, their kiss was wonderful and over much too quickly.

The snap of a twig broke it apart. Darcy and Elizabeth slid away from one another, and turning round, saw a very embarrassed Colonel Fitzwilliam.

"Fitzwilliam, what are you doing there?" Darcy asked, glancing at Elizabeth's cherry-colored cheeks, knowing his must be the same.

It took Fitzwilliam a moment to answer, to clear that glassy expression from his features and hide the shattered pieces from his voice. He could not look at Elizabeth. He could not say why.

"I came to take my leave of those at the parsonage, cousin."

Darcy nodded. "I am here, that is, I have come to pay my respects before we leave this morning as well."

Fitzwilliam merely raised his eye brows and Darcy, recalling back some of his composure, shrugged. With an almost boyish grin, he swiped his hand through his hair and looked at Elizabeth. She remained as still as a windless day and as red as a sunless dusk and with her at his side he felt that he could command all the elements. He knew she would not speak up, and he respected her all the more for her modesty. It was his news to share, and his cousin to share it with.

"I believe you are to offer me congratulations, Fitzwilliam, for having procured Miss Bennet's affection and hand in marriage."

Fitzwilliam was beyond astonishment. In spite of everything he knew, and everything he had assumed, this news came with the silent, swift lethalness of a stray ball from a fellow soldier's gun. It pierced him to the core, those fragile scraps he had tried to sweep away when he happened upon their kiss, dissolving into dust. Something he had not even known had been in danger, had just been broken. Suddenly Fitzwilliam understood that his affection for Elizabeth was not just a passing fancy. He had been falling in love with her, and standing witness to her intimate embrace with Darcy, had been the one thing to push him wholly over the edge. But there was nothing and no one to catch his fall.

In his mind's eye, this realization lasted as long as his entire lifetime, but to the outside world, it was only a moment. The soldier in him took command and he quickly rallied, heartily congratulating them both.

"You are the first to know, and we are planning on keeping it thus, with a few exceptions, until Miss Bennet and I have time to speak with her family," Darcy gloated.

"You may be assured of my discretion."

Colonel Fitzwilliam finally summoned enough courage to glance at Elizabeth. Her face was a blank canvas, but something about her hushed demeanor moved him. He wanted to reach out and comfort her. He didn't know why, but she almost looked sad. He swung his gaze back and forth between Darcy and Elizabeth as they all three entered through the gate, wondering why the lady trembled and the gentleman beamed.

Darcy and Fitzwilliam's visit at the parsonage was short. Neither caller wanted to stay very long. Darcy was alive with the verve of new love and future plans; Fitzwilliam could barely concentrate on something so trivial as wishing Mr. Collins good-bye. The longer he sat in Elizabeth's presence—her so quiet and reserved, vulnerable in the most tender and endearing way—he sensed a bigger and bigger portion of his heart wither away. Something was amiss between the newly engaged couple, and he warred within himself whether he was gladdened or saddened by it. When they stood up to take their leave, Darcy boldly whispered in Elizabeth's ear and Fitzwilliam, hardly catching her gaze, mumbled a terse farewell.

_Note-Thanks for the reviews, and to all those who read. Happy weekend._


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4: The State of Woman_

That kiss—Elizabeth thought about it nearly constantly during her final two weeks in Kent. It had been as unexpected as it had been undesirable, leaving her with shifting emotions, her feelings swinging from dizzying mystification to affronted umbrage. She had not wanted it, had not thought she had intimated by word or deed that she was a young lady open to such liberal advances, and had decided, upon day in and day out reflection, that it would not be repeated until after her wedding vows had been spoken.

She knew engaged couples must often share kisses, chaste expressions of love and sweet shadows of the intimacy that would follow their sacred union. But, from here on out, she would not permit even that innocent amount of physical affection. If Mr. Darcy could, without warning or cause, throw himself at her in so much haste and fervor, she feared how hasty he might be should he believe her welcoming of that sort of attention. His apparent ardor would not go unbridled, if she could help it. And she was determined to help it.

Although, sometimes, when it was very late at night and she tossed and turned on her mattress, or during those awkward, accidental moments when she would happen upon Mr. Collins bumping his fat chin against poor Charlotte's thin lips, she would experience a tremor of something a little more like anticipation when she thought of Mr. Darcy kissing her again. Since her first meeting with him, she had been bothered by his guarded looks and aloof, unapproachable manners. He had always seemed so distant to her, a man hardly worth getting upset about because he fancied himself so much higher than the rest of the lowly world. But that kiss, adverse as it was, had been nothing but open and honest. And as inexperienced as her lips were, she had tasted all the truth of his adoration for her in that single break from decorum and disdain. These rare instances of pleasant recollection gave her hope, hope for something she was not entirely certain she even desired from him, but hope enough to offer her a dewdrop of peace. They could not, however, dispel the other matter that kept her awake late into the night, or her feet ambling aimlessly around the park—as much as the kiss disturbed her, it was what had happened after it and who had happened after it that accounted for two out of three of her sleepless nights.

The interruption by Colonel Fitzwilliam had been terrible in every way. Any one stumbling upon Darcy's stolen embrace with her would have been the death knell to her lingering, fantastical wish of ridding herself of her engagement, but to have that shuttering end come in the form of the colonel, to have him be the witness, had seemed in the first blush of that instant so much worse than had someone else discovered them, and as the days flowed by, it seemed to worsen all the more. She couldn't detail the reasons behind her horror at knowing Colonel Fitzwilliam had spied her in the arms of his cousin; it was a vague, unutterable sort of dismay—a feeling more than a thought.

But she could say why she despised what had followed—the boastful way Darcy had informed the colonel about their engagement, as though she had been a prize he had won, the latest racehorse he had got the bid for, and then, as she had so evidently been reeling from the events of the morning, he had not offered her even an indirect apology, had not cast her a single, silent look of sympathy. No, all those wordless gestures and unspoken signs of worry about her, of awareness for her heartbreak and shock, had not been from her betrothed, but from her betrothed's cousin.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had, during that brief, stilted conversation in the parsonage, been the one to softly smile at her, to study her with honest apprehension when he thought she would not notice, to display the tiniest bit of compassion for her obvious discomfort. Within that tortuous quarter hour whilst the gentlemen had dutifully bowed farewell to the Collinses, Elizabeth had been struck by a sharp blow. The gaping difference between Darcy and his cousin had been highlighted and exacerbated, as her eyes had been veiled with checked tears and her heart heavy with disgrace. However much Darcy might be in love with her, however much he apparently enjoyed her company or was attracted to her, he did not respect her. She knew, from his own mouth, that he did not respect her family, and since that kiss, she knew that he did not respect her, either.

For the rest of her visit, Elizabeth moved around the parsonage as a mere shadow of her former self, gallantly braving each day with a false smile and an apathetic cheer. She thought she played her part well, she could see the wonder sometimes peek out of Charlotte's discerning eye, but her friend never spoke up, never hinted at her confusion or concern, and Elizabeth alternated between relief and despair. Her only comfort was that it would soon be over, and she would be returned to her sister Jane in the very near future.

On the eve before her departure, Mr. Collins returned, having spent most of the day at the feet of his noble patroness, with the news that they were all invited to dine. Elizabeth had been able to avoid her ladyship for the last two weeks, through some quick, clever thinking on her part and serendipitous bad health, but she had no reason to beg her absence this time around, and feeling happier than she had in weeks, with the prospect of Jane and London on the horizon brightening her mood, she was almost glad for the opportunity to see Lady Catherine once more. If nothing else, her ladyship could talk on for hours, without the usual interruption of actual conversation.

~0~

The small party had finished dinner and was sitting in the parlor. The Collinses and Mariah listened as Lady Catherine dictated on this matter and that matter, and any matter. Mrs. Jenkins fretted over Miss de Bourgh, the two wisps of women engaged in an amusing, apparently futile pattern of wrapping Miss de Bourgh's shawl around her shoulders, the stubborn fabric unvaryingly slipping off Anne's narrow frame, and Mrs. Jenkins unfailingly looking aghast and swiftly throwing the shawl back around her frail companion. Elizabeth watched the silly, little interaction repeat, as Lady Catherine asked every imaginable and unimaginable impertinent inquiry into how she was traveling, with whom she was traveling, and why she was traveling at all.

"But that is absurd, Miss Bennet," scoffed Lady Catherine, after Elizabeth had reiterated as sweetly as she could, that she really did have to go home, and that her father really would be upset if she stayed for another month in Kent. "Your father has hardly noticed your absence. I am sure of it."

Elizabeth could only smile in silence and turned her amused eyes back to the ongoing struggle of the shawl.

Lady Catherine scowled magisterially at her, turning to Charlotte. "You cannot accuse me of not trying. No one could ever accuse me of failing to try, but these young persons today are an abominable mixture of imagined self-worth and obstinacy. Why I was telling Mr. Collins earlier about the implacability of my own nephew in refusing to do his familial duty toward me."

Instantly Elizabeth's ears were perked, and she dragged her gaze back toward her ladyship. She hadn't heard either of the nephews she knew mentioned as yet. She didn't know if she wanted Mr. Darcy's name brought up at all. She feared she might reveal her secret, by a laugh or a sigh.

Lady Catherine was shaking her head, her jowls wobbling with righteous indignation and her mouth pinched in a disapproving frown. "The colonel promised me when he first arrived at Rosings this year that he would assist me in resolving some issue I've had crop up with one of my tenants, whose eldest son has enlisted in the army, but since his departure he has ignored my request."

"Perhaps he has forgotten about his promise," supplied Charlotte, as her husband swung his head from side to side in gross exaggeration. "I do not know the colonel well, but from the little that I do, it seems out of character for him to abandon his duties. It seems more likely that it may have slipped his mind."

"No, no, he has not forgotten. I reminded him of it the very hour that he left, and he assured me that he would deal with the matter directly. It has been two weeks already and nothing has been done. It is just another mark of the wild selfishness of the younger generation. They are without due respect or good breeding."

"Perhaps he has fallen ill?"

Lady Catherine opened her mouth as if to reply in a vehement negative, but then her eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. "Perhaps. I suppose it is possible. He did seem out of spirits when he took his leave. If that is the case then I am glad he departed Rosings before getting Anne sick."

"Colonel Fitzwilliam felt unwell before he left?" asked Elizabeth, without knowing why it was so important to her.

"Yes. I thought at the time he was just depressed to leave us. He loves Rosings as if it were his own home, he has told me so himself."

"And who could not say the same?" Mr. Collins bowed to his patroness. "It would be the most heart-wrenching trial to part from a home filled with so many treasures, both of the material and immaterial kind."

Lady Catherine nodded. "Yes, yes, that is true, but Darcy managed to rally his spirits, and he has a far greater reason to miss us."

"And all the more reason to feel felicitous to be in your presence, even if it is to bid you," he cast a knowing smile in Anne's direction," farewell."

Elizabeth had to convert the "Ha!" rising in her throat into a false cough. All curious eyes turned toward her, and she mumbled an apology. Lady Catherine's look of surprise shrunk into one of scrutiny, and she glared at Elizabeth, as though trying to needle out her thoughts by her sharp gaze. Elizabeth pretended to be unaware of her ladyship's examination, facing Anne and Mrs. Jenkins once more.

She watched the shawl tumble down again and saw the expression of alarm on Mrs. Jenkins' face and the utter fatigue on the heiress of Rosings', and was suddenly aware of the fact that the fragile, colorless girl across from her would be her family in the next coming months, and if Mr. Darcy had his way in even less time than that. Elizabeth held no high opinion of Miss de Bourgh, having written her off almost immediately as a cross, miserable creature, but she now wondered if the vacant eyes and caved in chest concealed more than what met the eye. Did Anne's weak heart beat for her cousin? Did she cherish the same hope as her mother? Would she cry when she learned of Mr. Darcy's engagement?

Elizabeth did not know the answers to these questions, and as she studied the young lady who inspired them, she realized she never would know those exact answers. Miss de Bourgh sat, her presence as forgettable as a fallen leaf. She did not stir, even as the world stirred around her, spinning around and around, constantly moving toward the next day, the next week, the next season. She had no more control over her destiny as Elizabeth did. Anne and she—whatever Anne's secret feelings and thoughts were—shared a common fate. Their lives were not their own. Long ago Anne's life had been subsumed by her commanding mother and consumed by her failing health. And two weeks ago, when Elizabeth gave her hand to Mr. Darcy, she had forfeited the ownership of her future, that release of her control sealed by his impetuous kiss. For all her airs and ideals, Elizabeth had become just as just as powerless, just as weightless as a brittle leaf floating to the ground. She had become Miss Anne de Bourgh.

Once more Elizabeth watched the shawl fall, the inevitable cycle repeating, and a surge of compassion and camaraderie softened her heart. She rose, sweeping across the room, and without a word, took hold of the shawl and tied it firmly around Anne's shoulders. Anne caught Elizabeth's eye, clutching her wrist with ice, cold fingers, and said the only two genuine words Elizabeth had ever heard her say, "Thank you."

"My pleasure, Miss de Bourgh," Elizabeth answered.

The two young ladies shared a silent, searching look before Elizabeth spun back around and quickly strode back to her perch on the sofa, allowing Mrs. Jenkins to reply to Lady Catherine's demands about what was going on and why Anne didn't have a blanket instead of that dreadful shawl.

Soon the Hunsford party stood to leave. Lady Catherine perfunctorily offered them her carriage, and Mr. Collins enthusiastically took up the task of thanking her for her condescension. As they were exiting the parlor Elizabeth glanced at Miss de Bourgh, but her face was slanted toward the fireplace. The glow from the hearth made her cheeks appear almost bright.

Once the four visitors were stuffed into the smallest Rosings carriage, and trundling down the lane, Mr. Collins congratulated Elizabeth on assisting the daughter and impressing the mother, Mariah stuttered out her astonishment at Elizabeth's boldness, and Charlotte, whose eyelids had been quivering for most of the evening, tiredly mumbled something no one could make out. Elizabeth smiled softly at them all and leaned her head back.

The carriage was blanketed in the stillness and hue of night. The dim light of the moon trickled in and the smell of dew was already in the air. Elizabeth stared out of the carriage window, the hushed inanities of Mariah and Mr. Collins washing over her as meaningless noise. She closed her eyes and wondered what Jane was doing right now, if her sister shed secret tears onto her pillow. She wondered what Anne really thought of her simple act of kindness, and if it would be the only apology she would ever offer Miss de Bourgh for stealing away the cousin she possibly loved. She wondered about Anne's other cousin, and what had made him forget to do his aunt's bidding, and if it had anything to do with her. And sighing, Elizabeth opened her eyes, the silver of the moon swimming across her face, and wondered what the man to whom she had given everything but her heart had been doing for the last two weeks.

_Note: Thanks for the reviews. I appreciate them. I know this chapter was a lot of thinking, but there is more talking and doing in the next one. I had to establish Elizabeth's state of mind before arriving in London. Sorry this is a little late, although technically it's still Monday. _


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5: The State of Man**_

High on the triumph of love, Darcy's two weeks after whispering good-bye to Elizabeth passed in peaceful busyness; his days quickly expired in energetic activity and his nights spent in renewing sleep. The business that he had put off for weeks as he had vacillated between duty and love, the months he had endured of fractured, restive nights, rendering him moodier and less efficient in the mornings, were finally at an end.

He rose with the dawn's light, occupying himself with matters he had not bothered to address or had struggled to fully acquit himself of over the last half year. It is not that he had failed to fulfill any obligation during his period of lovelorn indecision, but he had failed to go above and beyond the call of duty, had lacked the enthusiasm for exertion and the ambition which at all other points in his life—including those dark days after his father's death—had characterized his work ethic. Now and once more, however, everything received his full attention and every one his full consideration, some of his servants and stewards finding the return of their employer's vigorous supervision much more difficult to adjust to than the temporary relaxing of standards that had occurred months before.

Darcy moved with more purpose, walked with more deliberation, and spoke, if possible, with more assurance. And the thing he liked to talk most about was his engagement. He spoke to his London butler and housekeeper, Mr. and Mrs. Smalls, whose confidentiality was beyond reproach, and to his valet, Bing, who had guessed at the reason behind Mr. Darcy's malcontent and was glad to see it put to rest. The three trusted servants smiled and wished him well as he informed them what they should expect in the coming months and how best to proceed with readying the house in town and the family estate up north. On a whim, he even told a street urchin, who had begged him for a measly tuppance and had received a pound instead. The child's eyes bulged at the sum and he stammered out why "'Is lordship was feelin' so generous?" With a wink and a whisper, Darcy gave him the reason and another shiny coin. But the person Darcy enjoyed talking to most about his approaching, though unpublicized nuptials, was his sister.

The night of his return to London, he had told Georgiana, actually sneaking into her room and waking her up as she used to do to him when she had been a young child and he a young lad. His happy news had been as effective as a splash of cold water in shaking her from her bed. She had screamed in delight, and relighting her lamp and tucking her knees up to her chin, had asked him to tell her everything. He had laughed at her eagerness and the two had talked late into the early hours of the next morning. Their relationship had never been closer than it was at that moment, when with bleary eyes and haggard faces they had embraced and known that within only a short while their small family of two would at least be back to three.

The engagement was a topic canvassed everyday, during breakfast, during tea, during supper and in the comfortable, quaint evenings. Georgiana was always a ready conversant, her interest increasing as time went by. Over and over again she affirmed that she had always suspected his partiality, since Miss Bennet had been the only lady her brother had ever repeatedly written about in his correspondence or spoken about in her presence all. She was giddy about meeting a new friend, and giggly about acquiring a real sister. As usual, she worried she would make a terrible first impression and Elizabeth would not like her, or that since Elizabeth already had four sisters, she would never even consider adding a fifth. Periodically she confessed her fears to her brother, who was able to assure her with absolute confidence that if Elizabeth enjoyed _his_ company, she would most definitely enjoy the much more charming, unimposing company of his sister.

For the first time in a long time, Darcy was happy. But only those who knew him well noticed a difference. He was not one whose happiness overflows into mirth, and therefore it took a discerning eye to realize the change that was taking place and to skillfully draw out his joy. The most trusted servants on his staff perceived it, his sister knew just how to flatter him, her fear of her brother always a little less when she saw the light in his eyes that thoughts of Elizabeth revealed, and his closest friend and truest confidant, Colonel Fitzwilliam, could mark the subtle difference.

Darcy would have liked to talk more with Fitzwilliam, wanting to seek his advice on how to inform Lady Catherine, what to do about enduring Elizabeth's family, and mostly, when to approach Bingley about staying at Netherfield, and all that that conversation entailed. But Fitzwilliam was strangely taciturn since their arrival in London, always changing the subject or not saying much at all. And that was when Darcy could corner him long enough to say anything beyond a formal greeting. His cousin was missing from the club, absent from his dining table, and conspicuously non-attentive to the notes and notes that Darcy had sent him.

For an entire fortnight, Darcy waited on Fitzwilliam's response on how to resolve the Bingley issue, putting off talking to his friend. Petitioning Fitzwilliam for advice had been the sort of thing that he had at first only done as an afterthought, literally a post-script in a note about joining him for dinner in their club the following night, but when he had not received a reply, other than a hurried note declining the dining invitation, it had become a necessity.

Darcy begrudged Fitzwilliam's lack of reply and excess of aloofness. He wanted to tell everyone about his engagement, not for their delight, but for his own. He wanted to be done with concealment and to move forward without any impediments. He wanted to speak to his closest living male relative who already knew all the details about his understanding with Elizabeth. Darcy did not regularly seek out a confidant, usually playing the role of the unwitting confidant himself, especially to Fitzwilliam, but these were extraordinary circumstances and for once in his life he experienced the urge to ask another's opinion and share some of his misgivings. But, as the weeks passed and the time for returning to Meryton was fast approaching, he could not procrastinate telling Bingley another day. He could not wait for Fitzwilliam to suddenly remember he had a cousin.

Darcy shrugged, baffled by Fitzwilliam's bizarre behavior, and trusted his own judgment on the matter. He wasn't to blame, after all, if his friend could not bear to hear mention of his former love interest's surname. Bingley was a grown man and fell in and out of love as often as Darcy fell in and out of favor with Lady Catherine, which happened at least five times a day before dinner when he visited Rosings. Telling Bingley would be as easy and clean as shooting a lame pheasant, he mused as poured two glasses of port and waited to hear Bingley's quick footfalls racing down his hall.

The event, though, did not go as planned.

"Punctual as usual Bingley."

"Only a half hour late? That is punctual for me. I shall try harder next time to lose at cards more slowly. I should hate to think this promptness sets some kind of precedent."

Darcy smiled and handed Bingley his warm glass. "Not at all. I wasn't expecting you until at least a quarter past nine, which is why I told you to come at eight."

Bingley took a quick drink and grinned. "I knew that was your game. I won't be fooled again in that way. Caroline did it to me all winter long, but I finally grew wise."

"How clever of you."

"We can't all be as smart as you Darcy, but we can all have our moments, especially against our sisters."

Bingley chortled at his own joke, sinking down onto the sofa, but Darcy looked down. He suffered the first pang of guilt at his actions during the winter, when Caroline and he had consorted to hide Miss Bennet's residence in London from Charles. Recovering quickly, he leaned against his desk, sipping his own drink and watching Bingley finish his.

"More?" he asked, already lifting up the decanter.

"Yes, please, as much as you are willing to give. I played against Williams tonight. If I hadn't met him at Eton, I would swear on my life that he was a professional gambler."

Darcy chuckled as he poured into Bingley's proffered glass. He capped the decanter and set it on the table next to the sofa.

"Just because Williams is a gentleman by birth, don't think he can't be a swindler by trade. Have as much as you like."

"If you weren't such an ugly man, I might kiss you for saying that. As it is, I'll let you keep your purity and drown out my troubles with your excellent and plenteous stores of port." He swilled down a mouthful and smacked his lips. "A stiff drink is the only way to forget about losing so much money, if you don't have a wife to go home to."

Bingley's smirk slid momentarily off his mouth and a shadow flitted over his bright face. He shook his head and threw back another glassful. "Well, all is not lost. I'm not as bad off as Job. I have my livestock and my friends."

"You have more than that, and more than Williams too—he has your money, _some_ of your money, but not your character."

"Ah yes, my character. That is what the lovely debutantes and fair ladies want. A man of character."

"The good ones do."

Bingley sighed and stared down at his empty glass. "True. The good ones don't even want a man of fashion or care if you're a man of fortune. They can't be bought or bribed or flattered to marry for anything less than love."

Darcy glanced down at his brimming cup and his dark eyes swirled. "I hope you're not mistaken in that my friend, because that is the reason I asked you to come over tonight."

He looked back up and almost laughed at Bingley. His brow was furrowed, his cheeks and nose were bright red, and his head was tilted to the side.

"Darcy?" Bingley placed his glass down and rubbed his palms over his eyes. "Tell me that remark is the preface to a most particular announcement and I'll be happy enough to forswear drinking and dump all the port into the Thames."

"As long as it is not my port, I give you leave to toss whatever you want, wherever you want. Just not the tea or I'd have to ship you off to the New World."

Bingley shook his finger at him. "I might be intimated by you on a Sunday evening when you're stomping around Pemberley, but this is London, I'm halfway drunk, I've had bad luck with cards today and even worse luck with love this year. Tell me—are you engaged?"

Darcy smiled and nodded. "I am."

Bingley hooted, whistling out a long note and flinging himself back onto his sofa. He dragged his hands through his hair and shook his head from side to side, in obvious shock. "When? Who? How? Where?"

"The when I cannot even answer myself. I was in the middle of it before I realized I was already there. The where is in Kent, because she happened to be visiting nearby. The how is inconsequential, but the who, now that is something that is pertinent to you, and the reason I'm telling you before I've even asked her father."

"It's not—please don't tell me it's—it's not Caroline, is it?"

"Your sister?"

"Are there many Carolines in your circle of acquaintance?"

"No, and no, it is most assuredly not your sister, as talented and handsome as she his, and as fatherless. No, the woman I have proposed to and been accepted by is none other than Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

Bingley just blinked at him with a blank expression. "Who?"

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," Darcy replied, raising one eye brow at his friend. "Of—"

"Of Hertfordshire. Yes, yes, I know Darcy. I know. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the second of five daughters, heiress to a staggering thousand pounds once her mother dies, a clever young woman, who enjoys books and long walks and whose family you described, and I quote this exactly, ' is a nightmare from which the poor fools who marry the Bennet girls will never wake.' That is the woman you are marrying, is it not?"

"It is."

Bingley suddenly jumped up and started pacing the room, muttering under his breath and gasping out short, bitter laughs. Stunned, Darcy trailed his eyes back and forth, following Bingley's frantic walk. He had never seen his friend so agitated. Darcy wondered how much Bingley had lost at the card tables or how much he had imbibed already at the club. Bingley's entire frame shook, his hands balling and flexing and his spine curled up like an animal ready to pounce.

"Bingley? Is it something I have done—I knew my news would be unexpected, but I cannot account for your reaction."

Bingley turned at him and through the ruddiness of his drunkenness and the shock in his expression, Darcy saw the heartache still lingering in his friend's tormented eyes. The words that Bingley had spoken in a breathless, sporadic vent, at last sunk in.

"You…you truly loved Jane Bennet, didn't you?"

"No, she is not the woman I loved, Darcy, she is the woman I love and have regretted leaving since the 26th of November when I last saw her."

"I had no idea your feelings were so great, that they_ are _so great. Why did you let us persuade you otherwise?"

"Why?" Bingley whispered, his shoulders sagging and his hands going limp. "Because I am weak, Darcy. I should have stayed and fought for her. I shouldn't have let her be."

He blew out his breath, and flinging himself around, sprawled back down onto the couch. "I am happy for you Darcy, of course. I am just surprised, and jealous, and probably, more than probably, quite inebriated at the moment."

Darcy relaxed back against his desk. "I am sorry. I should have given you some warning."

Bingley made a valiant attempt at a smile. "I should have given you some hint of my undiminished affections. Truly, you cannot possibly know how many times I have mounted my horse with the express purpose of riding all the way to Longbourn and asking for her hand—only to lose the nerve and fear her imminent rejection, and remain in London."

That pang of guilt that Darcy had suffered from mere minutes ago drummed again in his stomach, only with much more sting and bitterness. He took a long drink of his port, closing his eyes as the burn itched down his throat, and made his decision. Leveling his gaze directly at Bingley, he opened his mouth and confessed the thing he now knew he should have admitted to months ago.

"Perhaps you didn't lack courage," Darcy said. "Perhaps you possessed intuition."

"What do you mean?"

"Miss Bennet is not at her home. She is in London, and has been for the whole of winter."

"How do you know this? Did her sister tell you?"

"No, well she wasn't the first to tell me. That distinction belongs to your sister."

"My sister? Which one—and how? And when? How long have you known Darcy?"

"Caroline, and she alerted me of Miss Bennet's whereabouts shortly after the new year. In fact, both Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst called on Miss Bennet and let her know, as politely and implicitly as possible they attested, that for your sake they were dropping the acquaintance all together."

"Dropping the acquaintance? When they had been the ones to begin it?"

"I believe so."

"And none of you thought it might be important to tell me? None of you thought I might wish to know?"

"On the contrary, I think we all worried you wanted to know." Bingley grasped his knees, his knuckles blanching white, and Darcy hesitated a step forward. "I cannot speak for your sisters, but I now see how wrong it was of me to sink to such deceptive measures, and the only reason I can justify my interference, even now, is because I do not want to see you injured more than you are. Although Elizabeth and I have not spoken much about either you or Miss Bennet, I can emphatically state that she has never revealed to me that her sister harbors affection for you. Whatever my faults were in this, however rightly you may blame me, I would do it again if I thought I could spare your heart. And as for the issue of her family, I did not shy away when I proposed, but told Elizabeth in very certain language that I was offering her my hand, in spite of her connections, not because of them."

Bingley did not immediately respond. His eyes glazed over and he stared past Darcy, looking so much older than his years. At last he sucked in a heavy breath and spoke in a calm, almost resigned voice.

"Thank you Darcy for your honesty. I do not know if I can even blame you. If I were a greater man, I would have sought to win her instead of fleeing. It's just all so ironic, don't you think?" He flashed a wry, wondering grin at Darcy. "You convince me to stay away from the Bennet family, and now you will become their family. I suppose the mother may be punishment enough. Certainly more than any chastisement from me would be."

Bingley looked at him fully in the face and smiled, a little sadly, a little falsely, but with echoes of cheer and hopes of a better day, and Darcy couldn't help but smile in return.

"You may not be a great man Charles Bingley, but you are one of the truest and best I have ever known."

Bingley laughed, picked up the decanter, and brought it to his lips. Pausing only to tell Darcy that he had earned the right to drink from the bottle, he gulped down cupfuls of port. Darcy walked over to the chair beside him and swiped the decanter from his friend's grasp.

"No hollers from you," he said before taking a drink.

Bingley laughed and stole the bottle back. For the next several minutes, the two gentlemen swilled down and snatched at the decanter. The only sounds were the hollow thump of the bottle as it exchanged hands and the soft gurgle of the port as it trickled down their throats.

"So," Bingley said, clunking the empty bottle onto the table. "What is the reason you told me—to contain my reaction? To get me rip-roaringly drunk? Or does it have something to do with my beautiful, abandoned manor not three miles from Longbourn?"

Darcy reclined into the chair and folded his hands together. "The last guess should have been your first. I was hoping to stay at Netherfield."

"I should make you stay at Longbourn."

"That would be cruel."

"But humorous."

"I will if that will bind whatever rift may still exist between us because of my actions."

Bingley shook his head and waved his hands. "You are not the real culprit. No, I am just more than a little troubled by the behavior of my sisters, especially of Caroline."

"I understand. I had no idea you felt so much for Miss Bennet."

"That is neither here nor there for the moment. Their concealment is beyond excuse."

"I cannot account for their reasoning, but if it does align with mine, how can you find fault with us originally dissuading you and striving to keep those persuasions in force?

"Never mind that, as you say, Miss Bennet's regard for me is likely much less than mine for her. Oh, my sisters. Would that I had your sister, or anyone's sister, other than my own."

"Bingley."

Darcy's disapproving tone and garbled words made Bingley stop and laugh.

"No need to get that tone with me Darcy, I will be happy. And of course, I will be only too happy to notify the steward that I am returning to Netherfield. I have to go up north for some business, though, and so I will not return for a few days. Will that inconvenience you?"

Darcy assured him that the timing was very much to his liking and plans. He offered Bingley to stay over for the night, and rang for his butler. Mr. Smalls hid his surprise at finding Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley red-faced and glass-eyed. Neither gentleman drank very much, or very often. With the help of Smalls and Bing, they both slapped each other on the back and weaved their way upstairs. Bingley passed out on the guest bed down the hall, fully-dressed, stiff collar and all, and Darcy fell asleep on his bedroom couch, with his mouth hanging open and his cravat undone.

_Note: Thanks for the critiques and comments. They help me fill in my plot holes. As for OOC moments, I only hope to make them believable. I think all fanfiction must be at least partially OOC... Again, thanks. Also, I have more revisions I need to make in the coming days. I'll try to keep up posting every other day, but I may change that to Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays because those are the days I usually can find the most time to write._


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6: A Comedy of Errors **_

Elizabeth pressed her face against the cold carriage glass and counted the number of houses that whirred by, knowing that before she reached twenty she would be at her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner's. She would be with Jane. She caught a glimpse of a yellow frame and the pink of cherry blossoms swaying in the wind, and could hardly stop herself from unlatching the door and leaping from the carriage.

The driver pulled up to the familiar townhouse, a faded, canary rectangle hidden behind tall arching trees and a high brick wall. Elizabeth skipped out of the carriage before the footman had the chance to open the door. Tears filled up her eyes. She hiked up her skirts and slipped behind the gate, forgetting to wake up the napping Mariah, and bounded straight up to her sister, who stood alone waiting and waving on the top step.

"Jane!" she cried into her sister's golden hair. "Oh my dear, dear Jane. I've missed you so!"

"Lizzy" Jane said, pulling away and staring at her in wonder. "Is everything alright?"

Elizabeth smiled, smearing the tears off her cheeks and lips. "It is now. Or it very soon will be."

Baffled, Jane opened her mouth, but before she could ask what Elizabeth had meant, their young cousins poured out of the front door, along with a dog and their Aunt Gardiner. Elizabeth was swallowed up, tiny arms reaching around her waist, a wet nose tickling the back of her ankle, and gentle pokes and prods in every direction as the children asked her to look here, to listen now, or to see how much they had grown. The current of shouts and small limbs carried her up the stairs to the front room parlor. For the rest of the afternoon she didn't have a chance to speak more than three words with her sister, and when the children and a never-fully awake Mariah Lucas had finally gone off to bed, her social aunt and uncle swept Jane and her off to the theater.

The show was an amusing distraction for Elizabeth. The skill of the actors wiped away every outside, obtrusive thought from her mind. She managed to forget her worry that she might bump into Mr. Darcy on her only night in London, to momentarily forget all her worries, and to immerse herself in the blissful escape of farce. She applauded and cheered, clapping her hands and standing with the packed audience as the curtain dropped down after the third encore.

Bantering and teasing her aunt and uncle as they all exited the theater; she didn't hear a gentleman call out her name, and with her head titled toward her sister, collided directly into his gold-buttoned chest. For a second, she thought she had in a very real way bumped into Mr. Darcy, until the color of the vest and the face in front of her cleared into focus.

"Oh, pardon me, colonel. I did not see you there."

"No pardon's necessary," Colonel Fitzwilliam said with a grin. "If I were having half as much fun as you appeared to be having, I wouldn't have heard the Prince of Wales say my name."

Elizabeth blushed and her eyelids flickered down. There was something so warm in the colonel's face, something so pleasing in the way he looked at her. If he had been any other man, she would have thought he was in love with her. But that was impossible. He must be that gentle with everyone—his kindness more striking against the fierce lines and colors of his uniform. Her uncle coughed and she raised her head, remembering where she was.

"I always have a fine time when I am amongst my friends, and these friends happen to also be my family. Colonel Fitzwilliam, may I introduce you to my Uncle and Aunt Gardiner, and my elder sister Jane."

Her uncle and the colonel bowed and the ladies nodded. Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged a few polite inquiries with all three. His ways were so easy that it did not matter if he was in a private parlor or a crowded theater, impressing the Gardiners and Miss Bennet with his affable charm. But the crush of theater guests jostled all around them, pushing them closer to the outer doors, and he was forced to take an abrupt leave back to his own party. Elizabeth craned her neck to watch him navigate through the crowd, wondering if it had been her imagination or if she had heard him utter her first name as he had briskly bowed and turned away. His red back disappeared into the sea of people, and she shook her fair head.

Hooking her elbow through Jane's, she traipsed down the theater stairs. The evening felt thin and crisp against her light cloak and clouds scudded overhead. The scent of rain mingled with the night air. She breathed it in, unable to make out many stars.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam appears to be a very friendly, good sort of man," Jane said. She nudged Elizabeth's shoulder and raised her eyebrows. "Did you see him often when you were in Kent?"

"Often enough."

"You are being so cryptic, Lizzy."

"Oh Jane, I wish we were already at Longbourn. I have so much to tell you," replied Elizabeth, looking back up at the night sky. "More than I would want Mariah to wake up hearing."

She sighed and rested her head on Jane's shoulder. Without saying more, they shuffled along the busy sidewalk. Their aunt and uncle waved at them from a few feet away, standing beside a hired hack.

"Come on girls," their uncle called, "let's take the long way home tonight."

The two sisters picked up their feet and hurried to the hack. Elizabeth was the last to step in and she happened to glance to the side before taking her uncle's hand. A straggle of theater guests parted ways and her eyes fell on Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was standing under a flickering street lamp, staring in her direction. He bowed when he noticed her returning gaze. Elizabeth hesitated, bobbing her head slightly, and allowed her uncle to pull her into the hack.

~0~

Colonel Fitzwilliam had noticed Elizabeth at the theater long before he had approached her; it was as though a collective sigh had gone up from the audience at her entrance, and his eyes had immediately been drawn to the source of the hushed commotion. During the entire performance, he had watched her from afar, struggling to reconcile the two halves of his self that had been combating each other for the last two weeks, the small truce he had believed he had achieved abruptly banished to a netherworld when she had walked softly into the same play he was attending. Fate had carried Elizabeth to his view, and at first he had felt it was a reward for his desperate fight to overcome his growing jealousy.

Since exiting Darcy's carriage a fortnight ago, he had done nothing but fight—not with guns and fire—but with his heart and mind. These tedious, drawn-out days and empty, meaningless nights had stirred his mind to recall those hard, humid weeks in the fields of France, when the dawn couldn't come fast enough, when the heat and harshness of the blast of gunfire and the violence of bayonet clashing against bayonet were a welcome relief to the hoarse sobs that would shatter the moonlit hours, the lull of the night nothing but a still, sightless void where a soldier could think only of the impending doom that crept toward him.

Fitzwilliam hated war, hated everything about it: the stench of the rotting bodies, the brutality that it inflicted on the beasts and the land and the men, the nightmares that no one spoke about when they returned home from the battlefield, smiling on as a gentleman should and engaging in pleasantries.

He would often remember one occasion, when he had been standing in a crowded ball room, the flush of sweat and excitement on every maiden's cheek and on every gentleman's brow, and he had spotted a fellow soldier from across the room. A tray of glasses had just crashed beside his soldier friend, and Fitzwilliam had seen, even from his distance, that glazed look that had glazed over the soldier's gaze and the hand that had shook against his red jacket. Without realizing it, Fitzwilliam had marched from his post, and gone to the side of the soldier, discretely taking him by the shoulder and directing him out into the cool, evening air. They hadn't said anything, had just lit some cheroots and stared off into the sky.

As they had spun on the heels of their shiny boots to go back to the merriment inside, his friend had turned to him, and said, "It never leaves you, does it? Once you've been on a battlefield, no matter how far you take yourself away from it, it goes with you."

Fitzwilliam had ground his cheroot into the balcony floor and nodded. "Yes, my friend, but you are not alone. You weren't in a battalion of one, and you never will be."

The only glimmer of goodness in war, Fitzwilliam had discovered, was the brotherhood that came from it. He would always be brothers with the soldiers he had fought with, commanded to die, and slept beside. He had learned to treasure those priceless relationships in every part of his life when he had returned home, putting away his childish envy of his elder brother and cousin for their ready inheritance and easy living, relishing the finer things of hearth and home, and if he had indulged in one vice, partaking of the luxuries that wealth could offer. Growing up with everything at his fingertips, he had cultivated in himself a taste for the opulent and expensive, and having that ripped away while he had battled against Napoleon, he had come back to England with an even greater appetite for the decadent, the rich, and the lavish. He was not a gambler, he did not puff himself up, and he played with his two nieces and loved his young cousin Georgiana like she was his own sister. In almost every way, he was kind, jolly, and humble, and he had never imagined that his one peccadillo would be the price he had to pay for marrying the woman that he loved, never dreamed that his penchant for finery would cost him his peace of mind.

The battlefield would never leave him, and since hearing Darcy talk about Elizabeth, _his_ Elizabeth, in their long carriage ride back to London two weeks ago, Fitzwilliam had realized that his days of battle had only just begun. Darcy was his brother, his own blood in more ways than his elder brother Philip. He loved him as he loved his fellow soldiers, would go to war for him, and die beside him if he asked for it, and it tore Fitzwilliam apart to know that he coveted that which Darcy cared for most in this world. It tore him up so much, and so fully, that when the rupture of realization had taken place, he had wanted the impossible, wishing that Napoleon would escape from Elba or the Americans would wage another war.

Delusional and in denial about the strength of his sentiments for Elizabeth, Fitzwilliam had thought he would be able to behave tolerably cheerful around Darcy, to take pleasure in his pleasure and joy in his joy, but before they had even returned to town, Darcy's measured praise and subdued delight had tasted bitter on his tongue. For his sake and Darcy's sake, he had needed to avoid his cousin, to remove himself from the situation.

And so Fitzwilliam had fled to his brother Philip's quiet house, to entertain his nieces and languish in Philip's endless conversation about gardens and sculpture. But his brother's house was not the haven of boredom he had hoped to find, his intended sanctuary had been converted into a dungeon. Philip's wife was newly expecting another child. This time they were both certain that it would be a boy, and their corresponding joy had overflowed, spilling out onto Fitzwilliam's tender mood and burning through him as acid. Worse still, Darcy had kept trying to contact him, and he had been forced to lie, to sink to all manner of subterfuge to keep him at arm's length.

For two weeks he had hardly slept—more frightened when he woke up in a cold sweat from dreams about Elizabeth than when he used to wake with the pulse of war in his veins and the vision of blood in his eyes. For two weeks he had berated himself for his unfaithfulness to Darcy, and his duplicitous desires. For two weeks he had gone over and over that conversation with Elizabeth, cursing himself for forswearing any interest in her and opting for comfort instead of companionship.

Confusion usually had grown up from these reflections. He could never fathom what she had taken away from that conversation. He had thought she had harbored little goodwill for his cousin, he had thought she had preferred him, he had thought then and had continued to think, too many things, questions he would never be able to give voice to and that would only eat away at him. He had alternated between happiness and heartache, shame and pride, and above all, disappointment.

Seeking any distraction, and always cherishing a soft spot for all forms of entertainment and culture, Fitzwilliam had attended every play, opera, or reading open to invitation to fill up his time. And then, one evening, high in his father's box, he had been able to secretly admire her—to enjoy her smiles, her light and playful manners; so pleasing to watch even from a distance. At the end of the performance, he had not been able to stop himself from seeking her out and hearing her say his name. After tonight, he had promised himself during the third act, he would only ever view her as his family and as the bride of his closest cousin. Tonight, he would allow her to be just Elizabeth Bennet.

He had called out her name, had plowed through arms and limbs to her side, and she had been oblivious to his voice, had not even seen him until she had stumbled into him. The softness of her body had hit him with the force of a hammer, her fumbling, accidental brush into him a moment of pure desire and pain. Her lashes had fluttered down, and her cheeks had warmed over, and his heart had stopped. He had wondered—again—if she regretted his words during their tour of the park, if she regretted saying yes to his cousin. Trying to make a good first impression, he had engaged with her aunt and uncle, and conversed with her shy sister.

Fitzwilliam had been a little surprised. Darcy had told him of Elizabeth's connections, in particular her relations in trade, and he had not thought that a man who could see his warehouse from his home would appear so fashionable, or speak so eloquently. As for Miss Bennet, Fitzwilliam had not been blind to her beauty, but their short exchange had left him only more certain that Elizabeth was the woman who would ever command his heart, her vivacity and wit a match to his breeding and bearing of a gentleman soldier.

Too quickly, the moment had passed. Fitzwilliam had walked back to his friends, but he had not been content. He had tapped his hat on his thigh, suddenly impatient and ancy. In a rush of mutters, he had excused himself and braved the bustling theater guests to see her one last time. It had been during that last glance, shadowed by night, as she had stepped into the hack, that Fitzwilliam had decided it had not been a grace of fate to have put her in his path again. It had been most decidedly a coup de grace.

Perhaps Fitzwilliam would have thought differently, perhaps he wouldn't have strolled away with his head bent and his heart sore, perhaps he wouldn't have made a foolish, impulsive error in judgment that night, had he known that his meeting with Elizabeth had brought back all of her wishes, that she had been able to mostly silence during the two weeks, that it was the colonel, if indeed it had to be anyone, that she could call her betrothed.

_Note: Please, please review. To those of you who asked: Yes, this chapter, as well as the last and the next and the next, etc. are mostly newly-written. So they are taking me more time to "edit." I had not realized I had so many revisions to do. For that reason, and because I need a bit of a break to find more inspiration for this story, and a very busy weekend, I will start to post only on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. _

_The next chapter will be on Tuesday. It's an Elizabeth and Jane chapter. Let's see if Jane can't help her little sister out. Thanks to those who let me know what you think. Happy weekend and cheers._


	7. Chapter 7

**_Chapter 7: To Thine Own Sister Be True_**

When Elizabeth stepped down from the carriage, the noon sun glaring bright streaks across Longbourn's front yard and the chattering of the song birds dancing across the light breeze to her ears, she had never been so glad to see home in her life. She turned to Jane, who smiled behind her in the carriage, and told her she was so happy to be home that she might just kiss Hill, their family housekeeper, and engage with Kitty and Lydia in one of their spats. Jane smiled sweetly and Elizabeth, laughing, alighted from the carriage and raced up the familiar pebbled path to the door. Jane came as quickly as her light feet would carry her.

Their mother and two youngest sisters were gathered at the front door, flocking to their side before Jane or she had the chance to actually cross the threshold, and babbling about all that they had missed during their absences.

"La!" cried Lydia, whose voice boomed above the clatter. "We have had the most rollicking time while you two were gone. There's not a day gone by when we didn't have one officer or another calling on us, or us calling on them. I'm sure we saw more gentlemen than you, and better looking ones too, for I can't think any man handsome unless he's wearing a red coat. And especially you Lizzy, for Jane was in London and probably spotted at least one solider on leave in town."

Jane and Elizabeth exchanged a subtle glance that their younger sisters did not notice.

"You should never assume," Jane intoned to her youngest sister. "Soldiers are quartered in every corner of the country."

Smiling, Elizabeth turned to Kitty, who was bothering her to know if she had liked Lady Catherine as much as Mariah had, and if she could confirm what the young Miss Lucas had written, about the astonishing number of fireplaces in one house.

"Don't you think it a strange number? Who needs that many hearths? I should be afraid to live in a house with that many fires going all at once. I won't be surprised at all to learn that it has burned to the ground."

Elizabeth, for once unbothered by Kitty's inanities, merely shook her head and grinned indulgently. "You are most likely right, Kitty. No one should have that many fireplaces. It's quite unnatural."

Kitty's eyes glowed at the rare approval of her senseless ramblings, and took Elizabeth by the elbow into the quiet front parlor. Lydia and Mrs. Bennet had claimed all of Jane's attention, demanding to know all the latest town fashions and gossip, bickering about when Mrs. Goulding had sprained her ankle—Lydia certain it was last Tuesday and her mother adamant that it was the Tuesday before that. As Elizabeth waved at Mary in the corner, who actually had the time to set her book down and nod back, she heard Lydia and her mother both loudly decry that neither Jane nor Elizabeth had caught themselves a husband while away.

"I'm sure I would have caught them for you—if there had been more soldiers," Lydia declared from the side of the wall. "No man is worth a shilling if he isn't a soldier."

"Now, now Lydia," chided her mother. "We can't all wed soldiers. Single men of good standing and fortunes come in many different coats. Oh, Jane, I can't believe you didn't see any of Mr. Bingley, but very well, very well, if it was not meant to be it was not meant to be. Still I can't believe you didn't see him. It is unlikely he will return to Netherfield, I imagine. Perhaps he will let it to another man, of an even greater fortune! How fine it would be to have a single man of ten thousand a year staying but three miles from us, even as a visitor!"

Elizabeth couldn't make out Jane's quiet, forbearing remark, and she couldn't help but softly grin. Kitty placidly looked up at her older sister, noticing the flash of a dimple on her cheek.

"What's so funny Lizzy? You aren't laughing at me are you?"

"No, Kitty. I'm not. I'm laughing at myself, actually."

Kitty's bewildered, blank stare only made Elizabeth's smile widen, that dimple deepening and her eyes sparkling with secret amusement. Their father came in then, raising his scruffy brows at his smirking daughter. He strolled to her with his hands behind his back and his face glowing with a singular expression of contentment.

"Well, well Lizzy, you are back, and as mischievous as ever, I see." He patted her on the head and kissed her forehead. "I am thankful for that. Finally things will be returned to normal around here."

Mr. Bennet spun away from her and moved toward Jane, muttering something to his youngest daughter, and smiling at his eldest. Elizabeth stood in the parlor, Kitty leaving her side to pester Mary about not hogging all of the ink, and shook her head in ironic wonder. Who would have thought her mother was a prophet? And her father was a fool?

~0~

The rest of the day passed without much incident, aside from the retelling of the news that Mr. Wickham had called off his engagement to Miss King, and the barbed fight that this report had sparked between Lydia and Kitty, Lydia angry that Kitty had trumped her juiciest bit of gossip by having a coughing fit during its moment of reveal.

Elizabeth took the information in silence—she had not thought about Wickham, apart from how her future husband had wronged him—for weeks. During her stay in Kent, he had become merely the object of Darcy's wrongdoing, instead of an object of her admiration. She knew the fancy which she had at one time possessed for him had been purely fleeting and superficial; nothing but a trifling friendship, really. And so, when the dust between Kitty and Lydia had settled, she could honestly tell her rose-cheeked sisters that she wished Mr. Wickham well, and wordlessly told herself that she wished he would not hate her for marrying his worst enemy. But she had no other thoughts to spare for that man, as charming and engaging as he was, her thoughts were already split between two men, one a soldier and one a gentleman. To incorporate a third would shred her already tattered sense of peace beyond repair. Lydia and Kitty may enjoy cutting their hearts for as many soldiers as there existed soldiers' swords, but Elizabeth did not. In her opinion, there were too many redcoats in the world.

As the hours wore on, Elizabeth's impatience and confusion only expanded. Her need to acquaint her sister with her shocking secret multiplied minute by minute. Finally the prattle of her sisters and mother were silenced as their snores took its place, the light in her father's study was dimmed, and she was lying in her own bed; the smells of her home wafting all around her and the familiar nighttime creaks and squeaks of the house soothing her troubled mind. She rolled over and shook Jane's shoulder. Her sister turned to her, her eyes wide and shining in the moonlight.

"You weren't sleeping?"

"No, I was listening to the sounds of home. I loved being at our aunt and uncle's house, but just lying here in my own bed is more restful than all the nights I spent away."

Elizabeth leaned up on her arm and kissed her sister's forehead. "Oh, Jane I have missed you."

Jane scooted on her side. "Lizzy whatever is the matter. You can tell me anything."

"I know. I will."

Elizabeth picked at the quilt—the quilt that her grandmother had made years ago, that had dried her tears and warmed her blood for as long as Elizabeth could remember. The quilt she would not take with her to her new home. She sighed and smiled softly at Jane. If she couldn't tell Jane, she couldn't tell any one.

"This is going to be a shock. So, as unsuspicious as you are, please do not suddenly turn incredulous." Her voice shook slightly, the hushed rattle of wind on glass. "I'm engaged—"

"I know," Jane whispered, sitting up and grinning at her. She cupped her palm to Elizabeth's cold cheek. "I know Lizzy."

Elizabeth started back, squinting at Jane in the partial dark. Confused, her eyes darted anxiously over her sister's sweet, understanding face.

"You know? How?"

"Well, perhaps I should have said, I guessed."

"You guessed? But—are my thoughts so easily guessed at?"

"No, but you hardly ever cry, or kiss. It is not that you lack sensibility, not at all, but you do not usually display your affections or emotions with so much feeling."

"Or with so much wetness, either, it seems," Elizabeth dryly said, pinching her nose and shaking her head. "Jane, Jane, Jane. This is not how I thought my confession would go. I was the one poised to astonish, and you the one set to gasp."

"I give you leave to astonish me now. Tell me how and when."

Elizabeth dropped her hand away from her face and laughed, unaware that Jane hadn't mentioned to tell her 'who.' She drummed her fingers along the quilt and blew out her breath.

"As I wrote you, Mr. Darcy was at his aunt's during much of the same time as I was in the neighborhood. He visits her every Easter season, evidently. It is quite the tradition, and one which I pray I am not expected to participate in." She winked at Jane conspiratorially. "If Mr. Darcy's sister can wriggle out of it, I am sure as his wife—Oh, how peculiar it is to say that aloud—I will be able to as well."

Jane did indeed gasp, clasping her hands to her face and hitting her head against the headboard, but her amazement was not for the reason Elizabeth suspected.

"Mr. Darcy? The wife of Mr. Darcy?"

"Yes, the wife of Mr. Darcy. If it sounds strange to your ears, imagine how strange it is to speak it."

"Mr. Darcy?" asked Jane again, grasping at Elizabeth's shoulders. "Are you sure? Are you sure you mean Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth laughed and pried Jane's frantic fingers off her nightgown. "Quite sure. Oh, dear, what shall I do if you do not believe me? You were my one hope. I admit this is more of the response I was expecting, but why the sudden reversal? You had already guessed it. You _knew_, in fact."

Jane swept her hand across her brow. "No, no Lizzy. I cannot fathom it. I had guessed you were engaged, but not to Mr. Darcy."

Elizabeth's wry smile fell from her lips. "Who had you guessed?"

"It doesn't matter. Not now. I was wrong. I should never try to be clever. You are the clever one."

"Jane, please," she urged. "Who did you think it was?"

"No, no, please you'll laugh at me or worse, be mad at me. No, no. It was nothing."

Jane's reply was too quick, a torrent of muffled consonants. She would not meet Elizabeth's eye and whipped her head aside. Perhaps it was the crimson ribbon in Jane's long braid, or the shaded rouge on her sister's flushed cheeks, but Elizabeth's heart all of a sudden beat with a knowing, sad pang. She stammered at Jane, until the hesitant, painful question came. A question she feared to ask, because it was the question she had refused to ask herself. The question that had plagued her since last night, when he had watched her from across the way, and his shadowy face had chilled her with indefinable sorrow.

"Did you think it was Colonel Fitzwilliam?"

Jane's uncharacteristic jittery movements stilled. She eased against the sturdy cherry wood of their headboard and slowly nodded. Elizabeth sat back, too, and stared out across their room to the square of stars peeking through their window.

"No, it is not the colonel. It is indeed his cousin. I am most assuredly engaged to Mr. Darcy." She rolled her head back and hit it against the wood. "Won't Kitty and Lydia be disappointed that I spent most of my time in Kent with one soldier and one landowner, and only managed to entrap the gentleman who doesn't wear the redcoat."

Jane didn't laugh and neither did Elizabeth. For a few minutes the two sisters sat in silence. Elizabeth's eyes glittered, fixed on the starry sky outside. Whatever heartache or useless indecision or confusing regrets she had endured and suffered through over these last two weeks, they were not solely her own now. She had shared them, lightening her load by revealing the heaviest secret of them all first—her engagement. It could not mend what was broken, or retrieve what was lost, but it could and did give her rest.

A great sense of relief seeped its way down from Elizabeth's mind to her feet. She let out a low, long sigh and Jane did as well. They slid down their headboard, and nestling into the sheets, turned back to each other. Jane smiled at her, her white teeth and fair hair shining brilliantly in the dimness.

"I apologize, Lizzy, I should not have—well, I am happy for you. Very happy. Congratulations, my dear sister. Just tell me, has your opinion of him so altered? I did not gather that from your letters, but analyzing and deciphering meaning from texts has never been my strongest suit."

"Well, deciphering meaning from any source, even our own minds and hearts, is a task that I have found only increases in difficulty as we age."

"Are you…are you telling me that you do not know your own heart, even where Mr. Darcy is concerned?"

"Mr. Darcy—now if I could understand him better, I think I would either hate him, or love him."

"So, you do not love him?" Jane's voice thickened with sadness. "But you are determined to marry him? Please, tell me you at least think more highly of him than you once did, that you respect him more. I cannot understand you."

Setting aside all her teasing and suppressing her reflexes to obfuscate the gravity of her words with humor, Elizabeth adopted a more somber attitude and gradually, meanderingly, related to Jane how her regard of Mr. Darcy had _somewhat_ softened as she had become more acquainted with his ways in Kent, even delving into the story of his saving a girl from abject poverty and how it had opened her eyes to the harsh realities of the world, opened her palm to the man who had asked to take her hand into his own. But she omitted more than she told.

She kept back from whom she had learned of her betrothed's good, brave deed. It would not calm her spirits to think of the colonel right now. She kept hidden Darcy's part in separating Bingley from Jane—not wanting to tell any news on that front until she had proof that it would be good news. She neglected to mention that impulsive, perplexing kiss of farewell, convinced she would always neglect to confess to that. Nevertheless, despite all of her omissions, Elizabeth could not hide from Jane everything she wished to conceal, everything she knew would bring Jane sorrow.

"It hurts me to see you struggle, Lizzy. I feel and see your lack of love, and with such felicitous tidings, there should be some felicity on your face. Yet you still sound surprised that you are engaged to him."

"I know. I've wondered when the shock wears off. It cannot always be this way—I cannot live my life in a constant state of wonder."

"No, no I am sure as more people learn of the engagement; you will not feel so startled by it. It will get better," Jane almost commanded, her optimism breaking through her own surprise and timidity. "And that story you heard of him, from an unnamed source I will not seek to discover, signifies that he must be a man worthy of your regard. Perhaps affection will blossom, Lizzy."

To this, Elizabeth told in more detail the manner of Darcy's proposal, how insulting and conceited he had been—and perhaps with more animation than necessary. But Jane's unwitting reference to the colonel, the 'unnamed the source' who in fact had a name her sister knew, piqued Elizabeth's already tender heard.

"Please Jane," she begged. "You always see the good in a situation. Give me your thoughts on _why_ he would conduct himself so meanly to say, Wickham, or to the general public in Mertyon, if he were indeed a man of honor. I fear that his one good act was a deviation from, and not evidence of, his true character."

"It just demonstrates to me," said Jane after a moment's reflection, "that he is not lacking in what you may call the essentials of morals. I never thought him so deficient in the appearance of them, you know, as you did. And he must care a great deal for you Lizzy to lower himself in the eyes of his connections and perhaps the world at large in order to gain your hand."

"I will try to adopt your attitude. It would certainly make things easier for me if I did."

Elizabeth's voice wobbled when she said this. A single tear slanted down her cheek and pooled on her pillow. She had thought her tears were dried up, but the relief of confiding was, even now, waning in its potency. Through the hazy light she saw a sympathetic tear trickle onto Jane's own pillow.

"If you really are so miserable, is there no hope of ending the engagement? Mr. Darcy, I'm sure, does not want to marry a woman who thinks so lowly of him. He has far too much pride for that."

Elizabeth laughed humorlessly. The image of Darcy's eyes as he had crushed her into his embrace, the tremor of his voice as he had declared their engagement to his cousin, and the sharp glimpse of the pale shock in the colonel's face all blinked across her vision, memories whose vividness would never fade.

"I cannot tell you why, not now, but the engagement cannot be broken, Jane."

"Then tell me again, how did you come to accept his proposal? I know you cannot be persuaded by reason or security alone. If that were true, you would already be married to Mr. Collins."

"Yes, let us be grateful I did not hear an eerie tale about that gentleman before he deigned to propose to me. Although, to her credit, Charlotte is content with her lot in life. And Mr. Darcy must be a better husband than Mr. Collins."

"I have no ill feelings for our cousin, but I would agree," Jane said tactfully. "That is something, is it not Lizzy? You would rather have Mr. Darcy than Mr. Collins."

"As I am trying to endow myself with your remarkable positivity—I will say yes. Yes it is a very good thing that my prejudice does not blind me so much that I cannot see that Mr. Darcy is neither obese nor unattractive."

"But his handsomeness was not the reason you gave your word to marry him," Jane surmised. "So truly, what was it?"

Elizabeth turned onto her back and, keeping nothing from Jane, tried to tell her of the fallen woman's true effect on her state of mind—that it did less to alter her opinion of Mr. Darcy, and more to alter her opinion of her own security from suffering the same fate, or worse, her sisters suffering such a fate.

"I have tried a hundred times to articulate what it was that I felt in that moment, when I found myself saying yes to him, the answer almost being pulled from me by some unseen force. But every time my words fail me. As strange as it sounds, I think it's because what compelled me to accept him had nothing to do with what we can describe or even what we can see. It was a feeling, an impression of colors and sounds, things that have never actually happened, but things that could happen."

"Bad things Lizzy?"

Elizabeth glanced at Jane and saw again, for the first time in a long time, that frightening image that had arisen in her mind during Darcy's proposal: her sweet sister forsaken on some forgotten, misty plain, her belly bulging with the child of an unknown, vicious man. In the warmth of her own bed and with her sister resting beside her perfectly unharmed and untouched, the image still possessed the force to chill Elizabeth to the bone and rouse her blood with fear. A shudder spread through her limbs and a certainty sealed over her mind.

"Have you ever had a dream, Jane, that was so real that when you awoke from it you were certain it hadn't been a dream at all?"

"I…I suppose. I don't normally recall my dreams, but I know you do."

"It was like that. I had a vision of you, and of me, of what our situation could be if the worst were to happen, and in that instant, I knew that Mr. Darcy, for all his pride and contempt, was not the worst that could befall my family and me. He was there, offering me not only himself, but the impossibility of that vision to ever come to pass, and I accepted him." Elizabeth's heart swelled and her vision blurred with sorrow. "I …I accepted him because I believed more in the evil of this world, than the good. I forgot to have faith in the brightness that the future might have held for me."

Elizabeth dissolved into weeping, and Jane feeling her despair, could only embrace her. For several, hushed minutes, she allowed her sister to wet her shoulder and drench her nightgown with tears.

"It is not so bad," she soothed. "You didn't lose all faith. You had faith in Mr. Darcy. You must see that. You may not believe he is good, but you do not believe he is bad, either."

Elizabeth pulled away, laughing and crying at the same time. "How differently I view Charlotte's decision to marry Mr. Collins. How idealistic and naïve I must have appeared to a friend of so many years! How unfeeling? Oh, but Jane, Jane, it cannot be all bad. Do you blame me for accepting him? Am I mercenary?"

"No," Jane assured her, dabbing Elizabeth's face with their quilt. "I do not blame you. Blame you for sacrificing your happiness for my mother and sisters' well-being? I just hope, and I believe my hope is not in vain, that this great sacrifice you felt was necessary does not turn out to be a sacrifice at all. Clearly Mr. Darcy is very much in love with you; which is no surprise to me. Any man ought to love you as much as I do—although differently, of course."

Elizabeth sniffled and rubbed her palms over her eyes. "Jane, my only hope is in you. I have none left for myself. If I could but steal some of your faith in the goodness of the world."

"If I could but give it to you, I would." Jane paused, a kind, encouraging smile spreading over her mouth. "And you know, think how well the colonel appears to regard his cousin. He sought you out the other night, which is why I had thought—Oh, but that doesn't matter anymore. He must think highly of Mr. Darcy to show so much deference to you. You seem to respect Colonel Fitzwilliam, and how could he be deceived by his own cousin? They cannot be such very different men, hailing from the same family."

Elizabeth stared at Jane, grateful that the hue of night shaded her thoughts from her sister's perceptive gaze. Stifling the urge to cry once more, she summoned her saving wit. The irony was thick on her tongue.

"That will not do, Jane. Mr. Darcy has dark features, fair skin and a brooding nature. His cousin's very appearance is exactly the opposite—light features, tanned skin, and a happy nature. Logic would suggest their characters are as different as their appearances. I do not believe they are alike at all, save in blood."

_Note: Thanks for the reviews. Next chapter is a Darcy one..._


	8. Chapter 8

**_Chapter 8: Les Regles d'Escrime_**

_Prete! Allez.! En Garde!_

_Lunge. __Advance. Attack. _

_Parry. _

_Passé. _

_Lunge. Advance. Feint. Attack._

_Parry. _

_Engagement. Croise. Counter-attack. _

_Double retreat. _

_Reprise d'Attack. _

_Parry. _

_Thrust. _

_Touche. _

The two swords clashed, slicing metallic screams and sharp, steel whistles throughout the fencing club. A crowd gathered to watch the skilled sword play. Oblivious, the two duelers danced, spinning and twirling, jumping back and thrusting forward with the grace and rhythm of a brutal ballet. The spectators waited raptly to learn who would be the victor of the match. The grunts and pants of the two men engaged in the duel grew heavier and louder. A flash of silver glinted, the final hit coming, _la belle_, and the judge called the victor.

Annoyed, Darcy whipped off his mask. Sweat dripped down his flushed face and his chest rocked tiredly up and down. He glanced at the scattering crowd, shooting the lingering men a reflexive glare of contempt, and ground his fists against the leather of his gloves. The attendant handed him his sheath and he accepted it, stabbing his épée in its folds and mumbling a terse "thank you."

Fitzwilliam slowly took off his mask and watched the attendant scurry away, eager to escape Darcy's bad temper.

"Well I'm glad to see nothing affects your graciousness to your inferiors."

Darcy flicked his dark gaze to his cousin and started tugging his gloves off one finger at a time.

"You tried to draw blood."

"Sticks have deadlier points than these useless swords," Fitzwilliam said, strolling to the opposite bench and leaning onto his sword like it was a cane. "Surely even your thin skin can handle a prick or two from them."

Darcy picked a towel up and began wicking the wet stickiness off the back of his neck. He dragged the towel down his face and tossed it onto the bench.

"You didn't fight fair, Henry. Not even close."

"Henry is it? You must be angry." Fitzwilliam looked down and twisted the point of his sword into the floor. "There is no such thing as fighting fair on a true battlefield, not when it's your life or the life of your opponent that hangs in the balance."

Darcy studied his cousin for a moment. His sharp eyes pierced through the grime and perspiration of their duel, perceiving a real and lasting exhaustion in Fitzwilliam's face. The hardness in his own face softened. He scanned the room quickly and dropped his voice.

"Has your mind often been on the battlefield of late? Have your memories been waking you again?"

The colonel gave a bitter laugh and slashed his sword through air. "No, I have been sleeping like a baby, Darcy, like I always do."

Fitzwilliam spun away and started removing the evidence of his fencing victory, meticulous and swift in all his movements—a soldier regardless of his surroundings. Darcy busied himself with disposing of the rest of his gear. He would let Fitzwilliam's obvious lie stand as the truth. He knew his cousin preferred not talking about his war experiences. Some men boasted of their exploits, savagely gloating about their prowess for violence and proclivity for cruelty in the back rooms of clubs and in smoke-filled billiard rooms; others, like Fitzwilliam, rarely even mentioned their time in combat.

When Fitzwilliam had first returned from France, he had pretended to be the same congenial cousin, the same boisterous brother, but Darcy and Phillip had noticed the slight lag in his quickness of mind and the distracted way he would engage in conversation. Over time he had faded away even more, until he had become a phantom of his former self; believing all the while that he was fooling his family. And then, one night when Fitzwilliam was staying at Pemberley, Darcy had awoken to his cousin's ragged screams. Grabbing the medieval saber from its perch above the mantelpiece, he had sprinted down the hall and thrown open the door to the guest room. But no bandit or burglar was lurking about—the only assailant in the room had been the colonel himself.

The sword had clattered to the floor and Darcy had rushed to his cousin's side. Fitzwilliam was tangled in his sheets and drenched in sweat, and Darcy had been forced to shake his already-trembling body awake. When the colonel's eyes had burst open and Darcy had seen, from the light of the moon, the terror in his brave cousin's eye, he had learned just how much the war had altered him. Gradually the effects of the nightmare had subsided, leaving a deadness in his cousin's face, a hollowness that had made Darcy grateful that Georgiana was away at school. And it was on that night, the only night ever, that Fitzwilliam had quietly told Darcy about his wartime experience.

For a long time, Darcy had listened and Fitzwilliam had talked, until long past midnight, until the sun's light had spilled over the horizon. The weeks following the incident, the colonel had steadily transformed back into a man much closer to his younger self, though never fully the same. Too much of his youth had been lost on the fields, too much of that boyish man had died out there, an invisible casualty alongside the hundreds of visible corpses.

Coming out of his sad reminisces, Darcy again cast his cousin a penetrating look. A silent man himself, he understood as few could why Fitzwilliam chose to often suffer in silence, but he worried if some silences caused more harm than good. Some secret pains festered into unbridgeable chasms in the soul, if never or even rarely brought into the light. But he would not pressure his cousin—that was not the gentleman's way. He would, however, forgive him for his inexplicable absence the last half month.

Fitzwilliam approached him and Darcy nodded, and the two departed together—in silence.

~0~

Their carriage rocked back and forth, the fresh spring evening gliding into the cracks in the carriage's windows. Darcy heard the comforting commotion of the street vendors pulling their empty carts away and the shopkeepers shuttering closed their businesses. He leaned back against the plush velvet of his seat and rested his arms neatly across his lap.

"How are they all at Parmont, Fitzwilliam? I haven't seen Phillip since I returned from Kent."

Fitzwilliam, who had been staring out the window, turned to him and curved his mouth into a wry smile. "They're as well as to be expected, what with Mariah expecting again."

"Oh, she is? Well, Phillip must be confident it's a boy this time. He's always confident it's a boy."

"They tell me they are certain that the child will be male. Apparently, mere confidence hasn't reaped any rewards in the past."

"I'll never understand why your brother chose to go into the House of Lords instead of becoming a judge. He enjoys parsing out the meaning of words too much to do anything but the law."

"He didn't _have_ to do anything. He's an elder son, and he likes the prestige that comes with power."

Darcy crossed his legs and raised his eye brows at Fitzwilliam. "Spoken like a true younger son. Beware, speeches like that only incur bitterness."

A shadow passed over Fitzwilliam's expression, a flicker of malice that quickly vanished into nothing. Darcy would never have guessed at the force of will behind that simple gesture, how fresh beads of sweat had dotted his cousin's brow from the exertion.

After a moment, the colonel pressed his lips together and asked softly, "How are things with you Darcy? I haven't seen any announcements in the papers. Wedding plans coming along?"

"Slowly," Darcy answered, wondering at the edge in his cousin's voice. "But well enough. And with any luck, you'll see a wedding announcement sometime this week."

Fitzwilliam bowed his head, toying with the cuffs of his jacket. "So soon?"

"As soon as Elizabeth returns from Kent. I expect a letter from her any day, informing me that she is situated at home again," he paused. "To own the truth, I had hoped to see her as she passed through London."

"Didn't you?" Fitzwilliam demanded, raising his head.

Darcy looked on at his cousin in mild curiosity. "No, we had not arranged a meeting, as our engagement is not public knowledge, and so I only hoped it would happen by chance. Most likely she is already at home. It has been over a fortnight since I last saw her."

Fitzwilliam nodded, tapping his toes and cracking his knuckles. "It has been but two days since I saw her."

"Pardon me?" Darcy asked, nonplussed.

Whatever had been agitating his cousin, making him uncharacteristically restless, suddenly evaporated. Fitzwilliam fixed Darcy with a level gaze and repeated himself, adding, "She was at the same play that I attended; a comedy if you are regretting not going. She went with her elder sister and aunt and uncle—pleasant people, the lot of them. Miss Bennet is loveliness itself."

"Yes," Darcy agreed distractedly. "Jane Bennet is a reputed beauty."

"Quite."

A hush fell in the conversation as both men stopped to think about the other Bennet beauty. Darcy experienced, for the first time in his life, a desire to attend the theater. Usually he avoided the play houses, fleeing from the noise and dirt of the plebian throngs—especially the absurdity of comedy troupes. Darcy frowned, he would gladly do anything for Elizabeth, but he hoped she could find other friends with whom to attend the theater—not Fitzwilliam, though. No matter how much Darcy trusted him.

"Why did you wait until now to tell me Fitzwilliam?"

"It slipped my mind until now. And we have not had the opportunity to socialize much lately."

"We have had opportunities. You have simply chosen not to take advantage of them."

"I am sorry for that," Fitzwilliam apologized. "It has been a…difficult period for me, but that is no excuse."

Darcy could tell that Fitzwilliam had more to say on the matter, for he opened and shut his mouth several times, before at last reclining into the seat and adopting a placid grin. Darcy wondered again what the true source of his cousin's malcontent was. Something told Darcy it was in addition to the horrors of war, something possibly gentler and infinitely more lethal. But Fitzwilliam would confide in him in his own time, if he indeed he ever did. Their friendship relied more on the long, comfortable silences between two like-minded people, than hours of heavy conversation.

"Your apology is unnecessary," Darcy said lightly. "I am not your keeper—although I would be if you asked it of me."

"Thank you, no. I have Phillip who does quite well in that department. I am curious about one thing, though—what happened with the Bingley issue? I assume you managed it fine by yourself."

"Yes, of course. It actually turned out to be a pleasant night, which I suppose shouldn't come as too much of a surprise. Bingley is always affable."

"I've never met as easy a fellow as he is. I gather he forgave you for your interference?"

Darcy furrowed his brow. "Did you think it was an interference when I told you about it originally, even before you knew who it was I had saved from the marriage?"

Fitzwilliam shrugged. "What does it matter now? He forgave you, didn't he?"

Darcy shook off the colonel's casual terseness and smiled, the sting of port suddenly in his throat. "Yes, he forgave me. And to celebrate, we drank ourselves into a companionable stupor."

"How sporting of you."

"You would have been proud to see me the next morning. I looked as if I'd swept the floor with my face."

"I'm proud just hearing about it."

Fitzwilliam laughed, an authentic, happy chuckle and Darcy grinned, settling into the easiness of bantering with his cousin. As much as he enjoyed wordless stretches of time, there were so few individuals with whom he could effortlessly converse. They parried and feinted with words about the ghastly joys of drinking an entire decanter of port in one sitting, enjoying this sparring match much more than the last, until something distracted them both from their playful repartee.

A blur of pastel colors flashed in the corner of Darcy's eye and he glimpsed a traveling carriage trundle by on the opposite side of the road, plumes and hats streaking by with it. The sight of the violet and yellow shades of spring that Elizabeth often wore reminded him of her, reminded him that if she had already passed through London, she was already at home, already that much closer to becoming his wife. His stomach clenched with anticipation.

Unawares, Fitzwilliam watched him. The joy he read on Darcy's face spelling his own doom, more so than even his thoughtless act from the night before. He closed his eyes, summoning the courage to tell Darcy what he had vowed he would, hoping that by releasing this recent secret, this fresh cut of shame, he might ease the pain of the other, deeper wound. He opened his eyes and broke through his cousin's pleasant reverie.

"Really, Darcy, you should not regret missing the play, as amusing as it was and as lovely as the audience was. You would have loathed every minute of it."

Darcy dragged his eyes away from the window, the sweet anticipation still stirring in them. His happiness blinded him to the pain in the eyes of the man sitting across from him, blocking from his notice too the tight grip the colonel had on the seat and the frantic pulsing of his jaw muscle.

Unseeing, Darcy smiled and replied, "I doubt even I would have loathed every minute of it, Fitzwilliam, with Elizabeth at my side."

"Too true, although, the play was not the only thing regrettable about that night."

"Oh," Darcy said indifferently. "Something was more tiresome than painted faces and glaring lights?"

"Actually in a way, you've hit it on the nose. I was out with Williams and Porter—you remember meeting them, old chaps from university, as well as a few fellow soldiers. Porter heard that Lady—"

"You didn't, Fitzwilliam. Please tell me you—"

"I did," sighed the colonel. "I attended one of Lady Henley's soirées—charmingly referred to as the Countess of Cuckholds' crushes by those in the ton who are in on her game and prefer the alliterative title."

Darcy raised his eye brows and brushed some lint from his trousers, remote even in moments of searing confession. "And was the night everything it is famed to be?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Did you keep your wits about you? I've heard she has a flare for the dramatic and a fondness for redcoats."

Darcy's sarcasm waned into surprise at the flush of remorse on his cousin's brow, and he quietly inquired, "Am I looking at the newest redcoat she has set her sights on?"

After a rigid pause, Fitzwilliam nodded, somehow appearing more disappointed than before, as though the admission of his guilt had done little to relieve him of its burden. He ran his hands through his hair and laughed raggedly.

"I didn't—well, I won't kiss and tell, that was not my intention, but she sent me a note yesterday and asked me to come to supper tonight, just a small family gathering with her and her son—did you know she had a child? I hadn't realized the count had fathered a child before his passing."

"Not to be overly crude, but why would you assume the child would be from her late husband? Wasn't she notorious before his untimely death?"

"I don't know. The child is Georgiana's age, though, so it's more likely that he's legitimately the heir."

"What are you going to do Fitzwilliam?"

Fitzwilliam blew out his breath. His eyes swam with a hundred sorrows that Darcy could not name, and his face was lined with fatigue. Darcy wished he could impart his happiness over to his cousin, to share what he had found, but he knew that that was impossible. He could not share his love for Elizabeth, and he most certainly couldn't share Elizabeth. Little did he know that at that precise moment, that impossible wish was exactly what his cousin was thinking.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," Fitzwilliam answered at last, banishing his laments to the corners of his mind. He was done with the conversation, the conversation that had only hurt more than it had helped. He saw the dawn of understanding in Darcy's face, and was grateful for his cousin's aloof, but intuitive ways.

"I'm sure that you'll find your destination," Darcy encouraged. "Don't lose sight of the North Star in your search for Atlantis, though."

"I'll try to remember that," the colonel said, a fleeting smile passing over his lips. "We can't all be as lucky as you, I suppose. The virtuous and the beautiful do not always align. That does bring something to my mind though—how did Georgiana take the news? I can imagine she's overjoyed at the prospect of finally having a sister."

"I haven't seen her so content since before—"

"Before the summer," Fitzwilliam finished.

A wave of relief passed between Georgiana's two guardians. Neither Darcy nor Fitzwilliam ever chose to discuss what had nearly happened during the last summer. Months later, the two gentlemen still suffered pangs of regret and failure whenever they thought of the way they had almost lost Georgiana to George Wickham. Both diligently avoided referencing Ramsgate, or Wickham's name, Darcy especially. He still had not chosen to inform the colonel that their least favorite childhood playmate was also in the army. He thought Fitzwilliam might seek out Wickham and put him in the stocks on some trumped up charge of military misconduct. Although knowing Wickham, the charge would most likely be proven true in some way.

Darcy considered telling his cousin right then, but after a pause, dismissed the idea and returned to happier topics.

"Elizabeth will be good for Georgiana," he said. "She needs some female companionship and guidance. Mariah is hopeless—and busy with your brother's children. Your mother is often too ill these days to go out much in public. And that leaves—"

"Oh, that leaves no option," Fitzwilliam interrupted with a smarmy grin.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, Darcy couldn't help but laugh, until from the window, he saw something that flattened his smile into a glower.

"Lady Catherine," he grumbled.

"Lady Catherine? No, no, as I said she is not an option."

Darcy waved his hand at Fitzwilliam and gestured to the familiar barouche parked in his drive.

"What the devil is she doing here?" the two cousins seethed in unison.

They whipped their heads around to each other. Both gentlemen wore an expression of annoyed apprehension. Darcy had no idea why Fitzwilliam appeared more on edge than usual by the appearance of their frustrating aunt.

"What reason does she have for being upset with you Fitzwilliam? She couldn't possibly know about the Countess—most of the ton doesn't even know."

"No, no, our aunt would never even believe someone like Lady Henley existed in the peer realm. I'm sure she's here for me and over a silly _affair de compte_, not _de couer_. She asked me to petition the commanding officer of one her tenet's sons, who is now in the Regulars, for leniency of post. I knew it was a hopeless business, as I informed her ladyship before leaving, but she made me promise to look into it. I forgot about it, until yesterday when I acquitted myself of the ridiculous demand. I bought the officer a drink for his troubles and wrote her ladyship a post about it."

Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes, and asked, "What do you suspect are her reasons for coming to you, Darcy?"

In that instant, the footman opened the door and their private conversation ended. Darcy tiredly stepped down from the carriage, muttering over his shoulder to Fitzwilliam, "I suspect the gossiping tongue of her clergyman, or possibly the gossiping tongue of his wife."

He adjusted his hat and marched ahead, the colonel trailing behind him.

_Note: Thanks for the reviews. Sorry this is later. I try to do it by the afternoon, but I got sucked into a different story and time got away from me. The next chapter for this is almost done, though, and should be up by Sat. afternoon. It's another Darcy/Fitzwilliam chapter POV. _

_I know people have commented about how tragic this story is, but I'm taking time to tweak things out. It will have some more humor, especially a bit more from Elizabeth. But she is going through a rough patch. And above all this, I liked the idea of a more fleshed out version of Colonel Fitzwilliam. He's always relegated to the role of the roob or the wingman, and in one of my favorite variations, the rake._

_And in response to some reviews, I wrote a lengthy to do about the inspiration behind this variation. It's below. Read it if you choose. _

_I was trying to think what inspired me to write this variation, I wrote it a long time ago, and I remembered it had something to do with the personifications that Elizabeth and Darcy's characters represent—the budding of Romanticism and the closing the Enlightenment, the two clashing intellectual movements that they project. I wanted to take these embodiments to more obvious levels, for I think Elizabeth really is the Romantic: impulsive, pessimistic, focused on Self and emotion. She never has the opportunity to reveal that gothic tendency toward morbidity and fanaticism, except in small expressions like "last man I would ever marry" and her absolute overreaction to Darcy's proposal, or perhaps her certain belief in Lydia's eternal ruin even before any proof. And Darcy fully embraces the Enlightened man, the Enlightened monarch in a way, who is focused on reason, order, education and mind over body, as well as the philosophical, although not literal, equality of all men._

_I wanted to how see these expressions of thought, when exacerbated, interacted. I think more confusion and swapping of roles would occur, because for all that the two movements were dissimilar, the one hailing Kant and the other Hugo, they fed off of or created the other. The colonel is a nice medium between the two, as in fact Austen was, spanning both movements and writing characters who also did. _

_Sorry my explanation was rambling and theoretical. _


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter 9: Fait Accompli**_

Darcy and Fitzwilliam had just crossed the threshold of Darcy Manor and were in the process of disposing of their effects, when their aunt swooped in from a side room and cried in a shill voice, "Fitzwilliam!"

The colonel glanced at Darcy, looking just as he used to when they were boys and she would call them in from the Rosings grounds to scold them for running off without Anne, climbing trees, playing in the dirt, or engaging in anything that young, rambunctious boys often do.

"At your service, ma'am," he replied with a gratuitous bow.

Silent, Lady Catherine darted her eyes back and forth between her two nephews, finally settling her quivering gaze on Fitzwilliam.

"You need not make that face, colonel," her ladyship sneered, running a contemptuous eye up and down Fitzwilliam's figure. "I am not here for you. I did come into town with the design of discovering the cause behind your dilatory behavior, but have already been to see your brother and he has already told me that the matter has been resolved. Not to my liking, perhaps, but resolved nonetheless. I shall proceed as I see fit, and take up the issue myself. It seems I should have done so all along, as you failed to achieve the accomplishment of my wishes."

The colonel mumbled some obligatory, repentant response and Lady Catherine turned magisterially to her other nephew.

"Now, I meant Mr. Fitzwilliam _Darcy_, not Colonel Henry Fitzwilliam. I thought that was quite apparent since I am at Darcy's home, not the earl's or Phillip's."

Darcy and Fitzwilliam exchanged a quick, more covert glance. As children, it had never boded well when their aunt had used their full given names. Darcy suspected it didn't bode well as a grown man, either, but he replied to Lady Catherine with the politeness society dictated, no hint of the frustration surging in his veins in his stoic reply. The sangfroid from years of enduring her single-minded rudeness cooled whatever heat her sudden and unwelcome visit had created.

"Having already learned what I had sought out from Rosings to uncover, I decided to come by and pay a call to Georgiana," her ladyship explained. "I have not seen the girl for several months now and had a sudden inclination to hear her play on the pianoforte. I would like to hear for myself how often she practices—"

"I am sorry you went out of your way," Darcy smoothly broke in. He had no desire to indulge her ladyship's weakness for critiquing other's on things about which she had little actual knowledge. "Georgiana is not here, but staying with some friends for the evening."

"Do not interrupt, Darcy. I can see for myself Miss Darcy is not here." Suddenly she frowned and swiveled her head around the entryway, saying, "Where did he go? Where is that gentleman with that ghastly effeminate head of curls on his head?"

Baffled, and slightly concerned for his aunt's mental wellness, Darcy was about to ask, "Who?", when Bingley shuffled out of the shadows of the same side room his aunt had marched out of moments before. Bingley dutifully nodded his head at Darcy and Fitzwilliam, his ruddy complexion glowing with an extra sheen of crimson, and Lady Catherine exclaimed, "Ah! There you are young man!" Folding her hands elegantly in front of her, she turned back to her bewildered nephews.

"Mr. Bingley and I happened to approach Darcy Manor at the same time, and were ushered into the same drawing room—whose hearth you should keep a better handle on, Darcy. It is spring, not summer, and with the sun coming in from the opposite side of the house, that room stays too cool to welcome visitors." She took an abrupt pause from dictating her strictures on housekeeping, loudly huffing through her nostrils, and then did the most unexpected thing Darcy had ever seen her do—her pursed lips suddenly cracked into a smile, fans of wrinkles creasing every inch of her face, and she set her frighteningly pleased visage directly at him. "To my astonishment, I am delighted that I met with Mr. Bingley. I was not in this house more than three minutes when he asked me, well—Anne and you are sly indeed, Fitzwilliam! I had no idea congratulations were in order."

A quiet so profound that it muted every other sound within earshot distilled upon the four persons in the entryway. The dings and tings from the kitchen below could no longer be heard as the cooks bustled to prepare the evening meal. The tocks of the large grandfather clock towering beside the cascade of stairs no longer ticked. And none of the three gentlemen breathed. Lady Catherine continued to grotesquely beam at her favorite nephew, her eyes glittering with a terrifying self-satisfaction.

Surprisingly, it was Bingley who recovered first. He twisted his hat in his hand, his nervous gaze never resting on anything for more than an instant, and stammered, "I…I had thought that this was not news to family. I didn't realize…I asked her ladyship if she had come down to wish you well for your upcoming nuptials. That is all I said. Nothing more."

"Indeed," Darcy said to his friend, steeling his shock. "That is serendipitous."

"Well, I must be off," Bingley announced as the room fell into another tense hush. He bowed perfunctorily to her ladyship, skittering around her skirts, and with quick steps approached Darcy.

"Bad luck, mate," he mumbled, as he swung on his cloak and stuck on his hat and gloves. "I'm sorry, but the good news is I pushed off my business up north and am set to go when you give the word…I haven't informed my steward yet—these last two days were painful. Let's just say I've decided to go dry for the next thousand years."

Darcy stared blankly back at him, undecided on whether he wanted to strangle his friend or simply laugh at his rashness. Bingley patted Darcy hesitantly on the back and turned to Fitzwilliam.

"Colonel," he nodded.

"Mr. Bingley," his cousin replied, cutting his eye to Darcy. "I believe I am also on my way out."

Darcy shot his hand out and clamped it firmly on Fitzwilliam's arm. "But I insist you stay, Fitzwilliam" He glowered meaningfully down at his cousin, using the full advantage of his height. "Our aunt has much to talk about with you, as well as me."

Fitzwilliam flicked his gaze to the hand Darcy had solidly on his arm, and grudgingly nodded.

"I'll send you a note, Bingley," Darcy said, withdrawing his hand and looking at his friend.

Bingley grimaced, shrugging at Fitzwilliam, as if saying to him also "Bad luck, mate." His floppy curls and he were out of the door and onto the sidewalk as swiftly as his legs could carry him.

Darcy called for his butler to usher his aunt into the drawing room. During the gentlemen's muted exchange she had been inspecting the miniature portraits that were on a small credenza beside her, but when Mr. Smalls approached her, she turned her scrutinizing eye onto him, and told him his clothes were too well-groomed for a butler. Familiar with her ladyship's observations, Darcy's butler gave a tepid nod and compulsory remark, and escorted her down the hall.

"If our aunt had the inclination, she could best Beau Brummell at putdowns," Fitzwilliam mused.

"Our aunt could do a great many things—not all of the great things _good_ things, either," Darcy replied.

"Yes, and I fear I might be an unwilling witness to one of those things right now."

With a superior air, Darcy reminded his reluctant cousin that he owed him some support, some fraternal solidarity, especially considering the way Fitzwilliam had cheated him earlier at the fencing club. The colonel did not agree to Darcy's choice of words, but he stipulated, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, that he owed Darcy his loyalty, if nothing else.

"Thank you," Darcy said, as they strode through the hall. "And please, just follow my lead. I'm taking a leaf out of your book, so it should not be too difficult. I'm sure you recall the _belle_ you used to win the match this afternoon?"

"Of course, I do. It was brilliant."

"It was cheap."

They raised their brows at each other, taking a pause before entering the drawing room, where Lady Catherine was already pacing, gliding her fingers along the furniture to check for dust, and jointly agreed that it had been undoubtedly effective.

~0~

With fancy feints and delicate parries, Darcy, assisted by Fitzwilliam, took on the noble Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Centering his attack on his aunt's weakest points—her pride in their family name and determination to keep those bloodlines strong—Darcy eventually claimed the victory. It proved difficult; his aim not only to end his aunt's myopic illusions of matrimony between Anne and him, but to once and for all deliver the coup de grace on her blind delusions about Anne's probable future prospects.

Lady Catherine was resilient in ways he had not thought possible, and deaf to his early, subtle refusals that, although he could not contradict the general assumptions Bingley's words had created in her mind, he could not confirm their specific presumptions either: His intentions were elsewhere directed; a match between Anne and he was unlikely to produce the happiness or fulfillment either wished; their union would only lead to disappointment. At last, he was forced to say truths that he had hoped never to have to articulate—his voice and resolve wavering when he frankly told his aunt that her daughter likely lacked the _health_ to be a wife and mother. When he uttered this, in as fragile words as possible, it was the only time he ever saw his aunt fall speechless. Her eyes glazed, a watery gleam to them, and only after several minutes did she wordlessly concede.

Mercilessly but doggedly, Fitzwilliam then charged in from the side, assaulting her with musings about the blooming brides that grew up from the sturdy stock of English farmers, as fertile and plenteous as the fields wherein they dug and planted. Nothing could have shaken her ladyship from her despair like a breeding blaspheme of that magnitude, and she demanded to know if that was the woman that Darcy had chosen for the Mistress of Pemberley, and if she, the wife of the late Sir Lewis de Bourgh, was supposed to congratulate him on pulling his wife up from the weeds.

At this outraged exclamation, Darcy turned toward the window, remembering when he had stared out the parsonage window and watched a bird take flight just after Elizabeth had consented to be his wife. The memory strengthened his determination, steadying his heart and hand, and he made the final, lethal thrust.

"I am engaged, aunt, not to a country maid of no standing, but to a lowly gentleman's daughter of rare wit and beauty—and one whom you have had the good fortune to meet."

A bird flew by his outside, soaring high into the twilight sky and, spinning on his heel, Darcy declared Elizabeth's name.

To say her ladyship was pleased by the revelation would be a gross exaggeration, one that even the likes of Mr. Collins could not endorse, but to say she was relieved, to say she was raised from the lowest depths of her horror to a degree or two above the pit, was closer to the mark.

In great, sweeping flares of her arms and wags of her head, she stammered and strutted, her flashy reaction completely distracting Darcy from noticing the withdrawal of his cousin's participation. But her dramatic displeasure was still diminished by her fragile state of mind, her reaction a pale reflection of what it might have been. Lady Catherine did not remain long in her scheming nephew's presence. She stalked out of the drawing room and down the hall, in one breath grumbling that her hopes had been crushed and in the other, rejoicing that her worst fears had not come to pass. Slamming the door to Darcy Manor, she took her barouche and her tempered disapproval off the premises as speedily as Bingley had fled from her only an hour before.

~0~

"She will not be staved off forever," the colonel said, shortly after the huffy departure, suddenly standing up and crossing the room to the tea tray. Hurriedly he poured himself a cup and vigorously tapped his spoon against the plate. "When she has time to think it over, she will not be so amenable and will deem your engagement as an abject degradation."

Darcy did not immediately respond, his thoughts running in the same direction as his cousin's. Their victory had only been to win a battle, not the war. And it had come at a high price. Guilt still chilled his mind, guilt at belittling the worth of Anne—whom he admired for her forbearance with her mother and her patience in regards to her frail, sickly body. Despite her trials and beyond her timidity, Anne was kind and gentle. The richness of her existence, he knew, far exceeding the likely barrenness of her womb.

Sighing, he strolled over to a sofa and sank down, stretching his arms out across the backboard. "I know, Fitzwilliam. Her disillusionment will wear off eventually. Still, I cannot believe she almost cried—I was certain she was incapable of feeling anything so profoundly."

"Yes, well, your grasp of the feelings of those around you is largely inept."

Darcy started at the venom in Fitzwilliam's voice. "Have I done something to offend you? You're taking Lady Catherine's fall rather hard."

"And you're taking it rather well—does anything ail you? What of Anne? What if she should discover what we said about her incapacity to fulfill wifely duties?"

"I have thought of Anne," Darcy icily replied. "And apart from my preference for Elizabeth, I pray she never learns the reasons we gave her mother for the impossibility of my marrying her, or the improbability of any man marrying her for that matter—unless he too lacks the hope or ability to have progeny. But we did it, and as callous as it was, we spoke the truth. Far better that our aunt hears the cold, calculating reality of Anne's situation from us, than from someone who does not care for her at all. Truth of this nature has a way of winnowing out from even the deepest caverns."

"Truth at all costs," Fitzwilliam clipped, pacing the room. "That is the Darcy way."

"Yes, it is. Is it not the Fitzwilliam way? I should like to know if I'm among liars and cheats—or did your confessions this afternoon about Lady Henley already answer that question for me?"

"Do not pretend to know of what you speak, or to think you are above hypocrisy."

"No one is immune to defects, or hypocrisies, but if there are failings of mine that have offended you personally, please tell me. Do not shy away now. I thought you were above cowardice, unless your dubious win during our fencing match was indicative of your true nature."

Fitzwilliam made an abrupt about-face, snapping his heels together and pushing his shoulders back. The same severe rigidity tightened his expression. "How dare you question my honor, Darcy. How dare you attack my principles. I let your sour remarks slide earlier—it's part of the game—but I will not stand here and permit you to accuse my integrity with impunity."

Darcy rose, struggling to quell his anger. "And I let slide your bending of the rules, though it is not part of the game. I could have stopped the match and demanded a new judge."

"All are suspect. All fall short of the glory of God, but you," Fitzwilliam clenched his jaw and balled his fists, and leaning in, coldly asked, "Is that what you told Bingley when you apologized to him about saving him from Jane Bennet's clutches? Or perhaps that is what you told Miss Bennet's sister when you proposed, "Pardon me Elizabeth, your sister is mercenary and her lover's a fool, but marry me and my righteousness will absolve you of your faults?"

Darcy's face blanched with rage, his quick mind working faster than his ability to rein in his temper. "Why the eager interest in my affairs Fitzwilliam? What do my relationships with Bingley and _Elizabeth_ have to do with you?"

"Are you questioning my honor again, Darcy?"

"Are you guilty of something Fitzwilliam? Why your inexplicable disappearance these last two weeks—is there a particular reason it happened after our return from Rosings? Is there a particular person?"

Fitzwilliam visibly flinched, but after a moment, a steely flint entered his voice and a glint his eyes. Darcy knew this was the man that had rallied his fellow soldiers and courageously stormed into the ranks of Napoleon's formidable flanks—this was the soldier.

"You asked me if you had personally offended me—and my answer is no, but you have offended persons that I respect and admire. Now I will forgive you for your veiled accusations, just as you will forgive me for what I have said and I what I am about to say: You take for granted that which others would, for even just one moment, die to call their own. You have everything that you need and anything that you want. You lack for nothing—except this—you cannot see yourself at all, and if you could, you would not recognize it as you."

The colonel's words echoed in the sudden stillness of the drawing room and he turned sharply away. Stunned Darcy sat back down. All of his irritation sped out of him as everything else slowed within him.

"I'm leaving now," Fitzwilliam whispered, with his back to Darcy. "Take my words to heart—or don't, but if you've forgiven me by the time your wedding comes, I'll be there at your side."

"Fitzwilliam…" Darcy started to say, responding to the sadness in the colonel's voice, but his cousin cut him off by shaking his head and without another word, Darcy watched him sweep across the room to the door and depart.

For several minutes Darcy remained on the sofa. Fitzwilliam's chastisement was too heavy for him to contemplate now, and more so, because it had been given amidst such terrible words. In all their years together, Fitzwilliam and he had never argued like this, even as boys they had hardly ever bickered or boxed. Darcy did not know if he could believe anything that his cousin had said—more convinced than ever that Fitzwilliam's bitterness and wrath stemmed from the broken heart of a lover, not the broken spirit of a soldier. Trusting that what he had _seen_ was truth, trusting the denial implicit in his cousin's actions and bearing after Darcy had insinuated a partially for Elizabeth, almost condemning himself for allowing fury to charge his closest cousin with the unthinkable, he began to try and sound out the real woman behind the heartbreak. He sorted out the bursts of passion from the hoarse indictments, thought of the weeks when Fitzwilliam had ignored him, went over the entire conversation they had held in the carriage ride here today, and the ambivalent allegiance the colonel had shown for both Lady Catherine and himself, and despite his cleverness, Darcy came to the most likely and incorrect conclusion: Fitzwilliam was in love with Anne de Bourgh.

No wonder Fitzwilliam had tried to escape from joining with Darcy in his launch against their aunt, no wonder he had been avoiding his happily, in love cousin and seeking comfort in the frivolous company of Lady Henley, and no wonder he had lashed out at Darcy this evening. Fitzwilliam must have realized long ago what Darcy had been compelled to speak of tonight, his cousin's eyes long since opened and his awareness pricked to the tragic facts about Anne. To have those unspoken truths acquire a voice, to hear them from the mouth of the man that was not only romantically indifferent to, but the intended choice of the woman that he loved, must have loved these many years, would have been a nightmare as horrible and piercing as the dream that Darcy had awoken the colonel from months and months ago. Darcy knew he loved Elizabeth with a profoundness that touched him as nothing else ever had, but even his deep, steady feelings rippled with uncertainty when he thought of what he might have done and how he might have acted if Elizabeth had been cursed with a health as brittle as Anne's. He wondered if he would have let passion override his reason. Would he have so blissfully bowed to Venus, or would he have burnt more offerings to Juno and Minerva? Could friendship and companionship been enough—as it must be for Fitzwilliam?

Shaking his head, Darcy stood up and tiredly walked to the small bureau across the room. He took out a piece of paper and some ink, and slowly began to write a letter.

_Notes: Thanks to those who are still reading and reviewing. This chapter proved more difficult, but I thought there was a bit of humor in the beginning. Bingley's always good for a laugh. Next chapter Elizabeth…On Tuesday. _


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 10: Within These Walls**_

Elizabeth gave herself a day. One day when she could laugh with her sisters as only a sister can, walk the paths around Longbourn with the wind at her back and the sun on her face, and simply take a deep, luxurious breath of fresh air. It was a day like any other day at Longbourn, Jane's and her absences having come and gone, leaving no lasting impression on the comings and goings of her neighbors and family. In fact, the two elder sisters' return proved more disruptive to their younger sisters' routines than their weeks away had. For as Elizabeth and Jane entered the house, after cutting flowers in the pretty copse beside the lane, they bumped into Lydia and Kitty as they were on their way out, and learning the reason for their younger sisters' giggly departure—the two were heading to town to visit the officers—frankly put an end to their designs. Kitty and Lydia's loud protest against such unnecessary adherence to formality reverberated throughout the house, stirring Mary from her studies, Mr. Bennet from his library, and Mrs. Bennet from her bedroom.

"That is just silly, Lizzy!" Lydia pouted, stomping her foot and doing an excellent impression of a baby. "No one cares about such things anymore."

"Well, I do, and so does Jane. It is not going to be said that the ladies of Longbourn can't go a day without seeing the officers."

"You do not have to come with us," Kitty countered, crossing her arms and knitting her brows. "We did not get to go away and so we should not have to stay at home just because you came back."

"I am sure this is a hardship on the both of you," Jane soothed. Her two younger sisters' faces lit up until they saw that their eldest sister was not finished. Elizabeth stifled a grin.

"But I am equally certain that you will overcome this difficulty and be all the more cheerful when you visit the officers in a couple days."

"I do not care if you go or not, but you do not have to shout about it," Mary said from the parlor door. "Whatever our lot in life is, it is best to endure it in silence."

Mrs. Bennet bustled her way down the stairs, and was on the point of countermanding all that Jane and Elizabeth had admonished; when from the shadows of the hallway Mr. Bennet stepped forward, and easily intercepted his wife.

"Come, come, girls," he said, winking at Elizabeth. "One day at home cannot be so intolerable. Why if I can endure it for these four and twenty years, surely my five daughters are capable of doing the same for four and twenty hours."

Not even Lydia and Kitty would directly defy their father, and the argument was at last put to an end. For the rest of the afternoon, the sisters were forced to put up with each other, and although the two younger sisters scowled and the middle sister studied, Jane and Elizabeth passed a delightful day in each other's company.

When Elizabeth went to bed that night, she fell asleep almost the instant her head fell onto the pillow and her lids closed. She had spent an entire day wrapped in the comforts and quirks of home, and the hours of familial familiarity had warmed her as nothing else could have done—not excluding even the prickly attitudes of her younger sisters during tea time. Kitty and Lydia's absurdities were just another part of home, bristly feathers instead of thorned thistles against the serenity of her mood.

So high were her spirits that she had hardly spared a thought to her troubles, hardly worried over what she would say to her father, or what she might say to Mr. Darcy when he arrived within the next couple days. It had been enough for Elizabeth to know that someone else knew her heart, and that she could confide in that someone as often or as infrequently as she needed. At some point yesterday night, amidst the tears and confessions and restive dreams, Elizabeth had realized that married or not, Jane would always be her sister, that some things would never change. She had carried that remembrance with her throughout the day, carried it with her to bed, and as the next day dawned, it still hung around her neck and pressed against her heart as a talisman of hope. She felt it still, that morning after breakfast, as one hand carried a letter and the other knocked on her father's door.

While at Kent, she had attempted to soften her father's opinion of Mr. Darcy, by writing a letter to him and meticulously inserting kinder opinions of her future husband into the text. She knew that her father would not answer the letter, but she had been hopeful that her engagement would not come as _quite _a shock. Mr. Bennet told her to enter and Elizabeth stepped into her father's sanctuary of books, so often her own sanctuary, and the nostalgia of the smells and sights hit her with an unexpected, tender pang. The boon from Jane's love wavered, her careful plans for easing the blow of her announcement appeared worthless, and for the first time in a long time, she felt more fear than peace in her father's study.

Mr. Bennet was busy with some estate affairs and tersely glanced up at her, believing she must have some errand or other that her mother had asked her to complete. Elizabeth was silent for a few minutes, deciding on how best to open such an embarrassing topic. She inhaled and exhaled several times, clutching Mr. Darcy's still-sealed letter to her heaving chest, and finally, willing herself to smile, spoke in a light, airy voice.

"Did you get my last letter from Kent, papa?"

Mr. Bennet looked up, studying his daughter with unusual interest and concern, and replied that he had.

"Oh."

"Was that all? You did not mean for me to reply, did you?"

"No."

Her father narrowed his gaze on her again, setting aside the papers he had been working on, and tapped his finger to his chin. Once when she had been six or seven years old she had been caught stealing a pie from one of the tenet's open windows, and carted off by the nub of her ear to stand in judgment before her father. She remembered the dizzying nausea and hammering heart beat of that day, but more than anything, the utter look of disappointment on her father's face. Elizabeth tried not to fidget, fearing that she would see the same expression today, the same mixture of shame and sadness chilling her father's crystal blue eyes.

"It was a peculiar letter," her father said after a long pause. "I remember it now. It was very odd of you to mention Mr. Darcy—and in such a liberal light, too. Do you really believe he is no more a villain than other rich men who are used to getting their own way?"

Relief and wonder swept through Elizabeth. She flushed, her lips quivering, and said, "Indeed, it appears he is no more a villain than most. He is peculiar, though to be sure."

"How so? I do dearly love oddities. But I am confused about the turn of your opinion. My understanding had been that you shared a mutual distaste for one another. I was glad you never got misshesh about his slight towards you, as I am sure he never looks at any woman but to see a blemish on her."

"As it happens, papa, mutual distaste is not exactly the proper term," Elizabeth hesitated. "In fact, the proper term for what exists between Mr. Darcy and me is an understanding, indeed an engagement even."

Mr. Bennet stared at her, before exclaiming, "An engagement? Are you out of your mind? Is this some joke Lizzy?"

Elizabeth found the realization of her expectation to be more terrible than its apprehension. The hurt and condemnation in her father's eyes struck her in the heart and melded shut her lips. For a few moments she could not speak, but slowly, bravely, she opened her mouth and tried. Her response was neither eloquent nor composed, but she assured her father that Mr. Darcy and she had become much better acquainted while in Kent, and that she had accepted his offer of marriage. She could not gush on about feeling more than she actually did, but she attempted to make statements that might happily satisfy her father without forcing her to actually utter a direct falsehood.

Unfortunately, Mr. Bennet was not appeased.

"My child, please do not insult my intelligence by pretending to imply affection or even respect that you do not possess. Tell me now honestly. What induced you to accept him? I cannot wonder at him offering to you, though you know how highly I regard you, but I must put aside my wonder at his motives." Mr. Bennet dropped his gaze, unable to meet his favorite daughter's eye, and his voice fell too. "He did not compromise you, my dear?"

Elizabeth bit her lip, and uttered a silent prayer of thanks that Mr. Darcy had not lost himself and kissed her before she had already agreed to marry him. She saw her father's shoulders relax as she emphatically whispered, "No, papa, he did not compromise me."

"Then please tell me why you said, yes, Lizzy," he asked, raising his heavy brow. "He is rich, to be sure."

Elizabeth thought of all the confusing, complicated reasons, all those explanations that she had discussed with Jane and mulled over in her mind until the logic behind them had been trampled into muddied nothings. She looked down at her father, at her confusion reflected in his face, and gave the only answer that she knew to be true.

"I don't know, only that I did."

Mr. Bennet nodded and leaned back into his chair. "I see, Lizzy. I see."

She moved her hands to her chin and felt the rustle of paper, and remembered the letter.

"Here papa," she said, offering him the envelope, her curiosity and courage peaked. "Mr. Darcy asked me to deliver this to you once I had informed you of our engagement. He wishes to be admitted to Longbourn to formally ask for my hand and your blessing."

He took it and turned it over in his hands. "And you are only now giving this to me? You have been home an entire day."

"I needed some time."

"Hmm. Indeed."

Her father said no more, but carefully cut open the letter and quickly read it. Elizabeth stood before him, noticing the disgust slide off her father's philosophic face and the wrinkles curve into more natural lines of contemplation and humor.

"Well, my dear, he does sound every bit the well-intentioned of suitors. Would you like to read it?"

Curious now, she nodded, and took it from her father's proffered hand.

_Mr. Bennet,_

_It is my pleasure to write this letter, requesting an audience with you so that I may formalize the petition of your daughter's hand. Rest assured I have every intention of doing my utmost to ensure her health, happiness, and well-being, as well as those of her connections who may ever fall under her care. I am not a man of many words, and I find that the depth of my feeling renders me even less so. However, I cannot neglect informing the man who raised such a remarkable woman that he need not worry that I will do everything in my power to remain worthy of her affection._

_Deepest regards,_

_Fitzwilliam Darcy_

Elizabeth stared at the letter, reading it over and over again. She hadn't expected anything from the letter—and if she had, it wouldn't have been this: every word stripped of pride, every phrase alive with emotion, every sentiment devoid of sarcasm. His professions of love were unfettered by epitaphs against her kin and unmitigated by confessions of his doubts. The force of these unadulterated words moved her, nudged something immovable and stubborn within her. Her pulse quickened and her cheeks blushed, as she realized that however she may feel about Mr. Darcy, he undoubtedly adored her. Overcome by wonder, she nearly forgot her father.

"I will grant him an audience. Indeed, I can find no real fault for denying my blessing and permission. He is the sort of man I could never deny anything that he deigned to request, even you my dear. I just hope that you can come to respect and admire him, as I fear you, with your vivacity and intelligence, would suffer more than most."

Smiling, Mr. Bennet stood and walked to her side. With a gentle hand he removed the letter from her grip, and his blue eyes as still as a breezeless lake, kissed her on the head.

"Let us put off telling your mother just a bit Lizzy. You may inform her tonight, if you like."

A little dazed, Elizabeth nodded and quietly left his study. The rest of the morning she spent composing herself in her bedroom. The sweetness of the letter had touched her dubious heart and bewildered mind, coating everything within her with a pleasant charm. She considered Mr. Darcy as a man in love, without considering him as anything else, or considering anyone else in his stead. It was a strange thing, she realized, to loathe a man who so clearly loved her. It was an even stranger thing to marry that man. It was strangest of all to prefer reading his words than hearing his voice.

Turning to her desk, she wrote a quick letter to that man, which she struggled over, but in the end successfully related the most important points—that her father was eager to see him and they would be waiting for his arrival at Longbourn shortly. Pausing, she signed her name, hardly knowing how she was to handle the reality of her now unalterable future or what that future would entail.

_Note: Early (ish) post. Thanks again for the reviews. I really appreciate them. They have already helped me to see how I ought to shift the pace this way, or give some indication earlier on. I get the impression many readers believe I'm rooting for a Lizzy/Colonel match up. Hmmm. I wonder if this changes things._ _And I wasn't trying to foreshadow anything in the last post. The letter was to Charles Bingley. _


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter 11: The Comedian and the Gentleman**_

The following morning when Elizabeth was about to join her sisters for a late breakfast, she heard a great commotion in the main parlor. Her heart skipped a beat when she thought it might be the unwitting sounding of the alarm by her mother and sisters for Mr. Darcy's arrival—even though she had only sent her letter off two hours ago—and she peeked out the third floor window. Seeing no one, but the backside of her Aunt Philips, she let out her breath and clasped her hand over her racing heart. She knew Mr. Darcy's arrival was imminent, his return to Hertfordshire the beginning of so many things and the ending of so much more for her, but she was not prepared for its advent. She had not told her mother of their good fortune. Apart from Jane, she had not told her sisters of her change in status. And apart from herself, she had not told anyone of Mr. Bingley's likely homecoming with his friend.

Her mother still wailed downstairs, the bustle of shoes on the floors and the clatter of hands on some dishes, and Elizabeth quickened her feet to find out what all the fuss was about. She reached the middle landing and Lydia came bounding up the bottom staircase.

"Oh, Lizzy, mama is all a flutter," she yelled. "Our Aunt Phillips has just called and told us that Mr. Bingley is returning to Netherfield. She saw his steward racing through town only a half hour ago. Mama was so excited that she went into papa's library and begged him to call on him without delay. What do you think papa said?"

Knowing that her father was in an uncertain mood already, especially concerning anything romantic, Elizabeth highly doubted her mother received a favorable reply.

"I can…" she began, but Lydia swooped in to finish her thought with a haughty exclamation.

"I imagine even you could not think it up Lizzy. Papa got so mad, and said he had already called on Mr. Bingley last fall and that all single young men do is disrupt our lives or steal our daughters, and that he wasn't about to go on a thief's errand again. Mama is now in one of her fits. But, how odd papa is, really! Single men are the only good sort and single officers even better. I do not care so much that Mr. Bingley does return, but Jane may not like it."

Lydia's young face broke into an elfin grin of delight and she continued up the stairs, exuberantly calling for a maid to help her find her mother's smelling salts.

Deciding it best to see how Jane did like, or not like, the news of Mr. Bingley's return, Elizabeth skipped down the rest of the stairs. She leapt over the pile of plates littering the floor, only glimpsed at her mother swooning on the parlor sofa in the arms of their housekeeper Hill, and spotting her sister pruning the side garden, slipped outside.

The stillness of the spring day was a pleasant contrast to the upheaval within her home. The low hum of honeybees and the twitter of birds filled the warm air; the scent of pollen dusted the plants and ground. She walked over to Jane with a careful smile on her face, admiring her sister's beauty, and incredulous to the absolute serenity of the expression adorning her face. The elegant, untouched tableau that Jane unknowingly presented, her golden head wreathed in bushels of blooming flowers and her long neck curved down as she plucked at the clawing branches of roses made Elizabeth almost believe her elder sister entirely ignorant of or indifferent to Mr. Bingley's return—almost.

For, on her approach, Jane looked up, and without preamble, declared, "Do not think me affected Lizzy by the news regarding Netherfield. I prepared myself for such an occasion when you told me of Mr. Darcy. I knew that it would be very likely that we would meet together often, as you are my dearest sister and they are good friends. If I appear affected, it is only because I knew everyone would expect me to do so. But, do not worry. I will be able to meet with him with tolerable unconcern. Truly, I am well."

The more Jane spoke, the more her affirmations rang as protestations in Elizabeth's ears, but her sister's courageously cheery face and soft, determined smile pricked at her heart. Elizabeth believed she had never loved her sister so well, or treated her with as much affection as she deserved.

"You are too good Jane, and you take away all the pleasure of comforting you, because you do it so well yourself. I will not bring up his name, but we shall see if he remains as unaffected by you as you seem to be."

Jane's face blanched at that, her winsome smile faltering slightly. Elizabeth grinned and hugged her around her shoulder, careful not to crush the roses or her delicate veneer of strength.

"Do not fear, Jane, whatever truly lies in your heart, your secret is safe with me."

Elizabeth turned away then, strolling back toward the house. With her knowledge that Mr. Darcy had been the driving force behind Mr. Bingley's first departure, she believed that things would work out well for Jane. Her future husband could not with good conscience stop his friend from entering into a similar engagement as he had. A twinge of doubt about the depth of Mr. Darcy's potential hypocrisy pinched at her, but glancing back at the idyllic portrait of her sister, she forced herself to ignore it. For the hundredth time since coming home, she tried to think of him with the same flattering opinion that Jane held of him.

And as she sat down beside her mother, responding to Mrs. Bennet's warbled pleas for her to come and hear out her complaints, Elizabeth found it much less difficult to view Mr. Darcy in a more agreeable light. If nothing else, he would take her far away from her mother's careworn histrionics and imagined heartaches.

"Oh Lizzy," her mother fretted rather pathetically. "What shall we do? Your father is fixed on ruining us all. If only you had married Mr. Collins I would not be so distraught."

Elizabeth frowned at her mother, and believing she would never find such an appropriate opportunity to share her news, and realizing that everyone else had long ago abandoned her mother's side, picked up the smelling salts still lying on the sofa cushion and handed them to Mrs. Bennet.

"Here mama," she said. "I think you may need these again."

~0~

During the noon hour, a sudden rain shower disrupted the calm skies and poured out heat and moisture onto the earth. The Bennet ladies cloistered themselves in the main parlor and for the remainder of the uncommonly, muggy spring day languished indoors, barely bothering to swat at the flies circling their heads. Their frocks were pushed up to their knees and their stockings were off their feet, when the fierce crunch of fast wheels on wet gravel heralded the approach of visitors. Kitty, who sat closest to the front window, languidly rolled her face to the side and immediately bolted upright.

"Jane! Jane!" she cried, scrambling to hide her petticoats. "Mr. Bingley is here—and he's not alone. He's brought, but no, that isn't Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst. He's brought two women and a man. La! It's Mr. Darcy."

The mayhem that this exclamation incited was ten times greater than the commotion that had occurred earlier in the day from Mrs. Bennet's fainting spell: fingers went flying through let-down hair, madly twisting unruly locks into tight buns, hands tugged down on the disheveled dresses, and feet kicked the floor debris of ribbons and books underneath the sofas and long-skirted table cloths. Elizabeth hardly had enough time to frantically button up the front of her dress, let alone compose her thoughts. She didn't even have a moment to peek at her elder sister, who appeared the epitome of calm, apart from the tremble in her hands.

All too soon for Elizabeth, almost too soon for propriety, she bowed to Mr. Darcy and he, without saying a word of greeting, bowed in return. The shouts and peals of her family ricocheted off the walls and off her mind as she attempted to understand his intense gaze. She smiled at her silent suitor, masking her unease and confusion, and he smiled warmly in response—a faint curve of his closed lips that drew a blush to her skin and her eyes to flutter downward.

Already packed and poised to depart, Darcy had been anticipating her letter, and therefore, on the hour that he received it, had called on Bingley and immediately set off toward Meryton. They had traveled in Darcy's equipage and made decent time, despite the unpredictable showers. Both gentlemen had been too engrossed with thoughts of seeing again soon the women that they loved to keep up anything but a sporadic conversation. Georgiana had been even quieter than usual, becoming more and more anxious about the upcoming introduction. And Mrs. Annesley, her companion, had remained as quiet as her young lady, until nodding off and contributing a loud and steady snore to the gentlemen's broken up dialogue. The gentlemen were so anxious to see the Miss Bennets that they had decided to go straight through to Longbourn before stopping at Netherfield.

And now they were here. Darcy could almost forget the irksome raptures of Mrs. Bennet and the annoyances of Elizabeth's family in this moment of happy reunion. It had been too long since he had seen his bride, his remoteness infinitesimally evolved into speechlessness.

Mrs. Bennet's voice chimed shrilly above the din, showering Bingley and Darcy with unseemly amounts of civility. Jane was too preoccupied to notice anyone but the way Bingley glanced at her, again and again, and with longer and longer gazes, but Elizabeth tried to subtly tone down her mother's boisterous courtesies, wishing the silent awe that had confounded her mother for the hour after she had learned of her engagement would return. Nothing her second daughter signaled or whispered had any effect, however. She babbled and bustled around the gentlemen as a clucking queen, her youngest three daughters confused, until Mr. Darcy introduced his sister and her companion Mrs. Annesley to the room, and in his usual direct manner, asked to have an immediate interview with Mr. Bennet.

Elizabeth watched him go. He seemed overly eager to make the announcement to her father, and she doubted if it had more to do with the fervor of his feelings for her, than the avoidance of her mother's fervent attention. Finding she could no longer remain standing on her quivering knees, she sat down. The rest of the party followed suit and situated themselves on various perches and cushions, except for Lydia who voiced her opinion that the best way to welcome Miss Darcy to the neighborhood was by showing her around Meryton.

Mrs. Bennet unceremoniously shushed her former favorite daughter, commanded her to sit down, and instantaneously flipping her scowl into a simper, turned her attention to Miss Darcy.

"Miss Darcy, it is a delight to finally meet you. I have heard so many wonderful things about you. Lydia, Kitty dear, you know, you are about the same age as Miss Darcy. You three must have a good deal in common."

Kitty beamed merrily, Lydia grimaced, and Miss Darcy gave a tentative smile back.

Distracted enough to crave distraction, Elizabeth focused her energies on the mysterious Miss Darcy and easily noted the slight hesitation in the young girl's face, how her eyes rarely lingered on anyone's gaze, how her voice quivered, and how her feet tapped nervously on the floor. Having dreaded meeting her, expecting the brashness of the brother and the coy conniving of her friend Miss Bingley, Elizabeth was shocked to realize Miss Darcy was neither arrogant nor designing, no more a rival to Jane than she was to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth spared a look in Jane's direction. A sweet joy expanded in her chest. Miss Bingley's hopes about an alliance between Mr. Bingley and Miss Darcy were either maliciously or just poorly directed. In just one glance Elizabeth saw all that she needed to see for her hopes for her sister to move from the possible to the probable. Bingley had already forgotten anyone else in the room existed.

She eased somewhat into her chair, and becoming aware of the presumptuous interrogation that her mother was inflicting on her future sister-in-law, decided to save Miss Darcy from her mother and youngest sisters.

"Now really, ma'am. I do not think Miss Darcy would know the answer to that. Do you know how many pheasants are fattening up on our land?"

"Well, no, but as delightful as our little plot of earth is, Lizzy, Miss Darcy is from an estate renowned for its plenty, as you my dearest will soon discover."

Elizabeth reddened at her mother's bald allusion, now more desperate than ever to keep her mind on anything, but her future prospects and what exactly her father and Mr. Darcy were saying about them this very moment. Swiping at the sweat gathering along her brow, she interrupted her mother's next question—this time about how many chimneys Pemberley had compared to Rosings—and asked Miss Darcy about the one and only thing she knew about her: her love of music. Miss Darcy's face shone with a burst of energy, and confidence, and for several minutes the two talked continuously about their favorite composers and pieces.

As the minutes slunk by, the warmth of the day become more and more oppressive. Elizabeth's nerves rose with the sticky temperature, the blend of climate and circumstances gradually suffocating all the breath from her. And despite discovering, to her happy chagrin, her genuine and unaffected fondness for Miss Darcy, Elizabeth struggled to drive the conversation along. Thankfully, Mrs. Annesley, a kind but forgettable woman, provided some help during the breaks in the discussion. After exhausting her knowledge of the harp, Elizabeth was on the verge of excusing herself to find out the reason for the lengthy interview when Darcy and her father came into the parlor.

A sudden hush fell over the various conversations, and all were silent but for Lydia and Kitty's secretive chatter. This charged quiet made Elizabeth even more uncomfortable as she sensed and saw that every face was conspiratorially turned toward Mr. Darcy and herself. There was no great fanfare, no blaring of trumpets or crossing of sabers to mark the hour, though. Her father, after catching her anxious eye and smiling in a melancholic sort of way, made the announcement.

Lydia and Kitty exclaimed, and even Mary, who had as yet not spoken a word, managed to pause her reading long enough to voice her happy surprise. To Jane and Bingley this was no news, but each took the opportunity of publically congratulating Elizabeth and Darcy. Elizabeth could not but help feel that some of Mr. Bingley's joy, as he exuberantly shook her hand, came from his belief that Darcy's and her attachment would enhance his chances with Jane. She laughed at the cheery thought, at the near injurious jostling of her arm that Bingley in his enthusiasm afflicted on her limb, and he chuckled bemusedly in response. It was all so absurd in that moment. It was all so unreal and ethereal, the oddity of the moment as translucent as the film of perspiration overlaying everyone's skin and as thick as the air. The others in the room joined in on the laughter, unknowingly mocking the bride in her ironic amusement.

Bingley stepped back and Kitty asked from across the room, "What's so funny Lizzy? Why are we all laughing?"

"Life I suppose," Elizabeth replied. "Just life."

She turned to Mr. Darcy. He alone had not participated in the merriment, even Mr. Bennet's face was wrinkled in satire and Miss Darcy's puckered in a small grin. The laugh that was still on Elizabeth's lips slid off. An expectant pause dangled in the air, as though all waited for some reaction or interaction between the newly engaged couple, some comment from the gentleman to his future mistress. But the pause passed without any sound or gesture between the supposed lovers. The others in the room returned to their own distractions, forgetting about the awkward lull in the celebration, already plotting out how to spread the news to their neighbors, gasping about silks and chiffons, quickly retreating to their books and bureaus, or picking up the threads of unfinished conversation.

Only then, when all others were otherwise occupied, did Darcy approach Elizabeth. Only then, when all others would not notice, did he smile widely and speak directly to her.

"I fear words can only cheapen what I feel on finally beholding you again."

Elizabeth flushed, murmuring some indefinite reply as she looked down at her hands.

Darcy took one step closer, his leg nearly brushing against her dress, and added, "And I believe that was the first genuine smile I have seen on you since the day of our engagement. I hope it means the discomfort and anxiety I noticed in you at Rosings will now be dispelled."

Elizabeth flushed even more, and tentatively replied, "Your perception of the feelings of those around is acute, sir."

"You think so?"

Elizabeth wondered at the amusement in his voice—it rang with the same ironic timbre as hers from only minutes ago. She chanced a glance at him, risking staring him fully in the face, and her mouth curved into a smile. For the first time in a long time, something playful and daring rose up in her, something instinctual that sought to challenge his sardonic and aloof ways.

"I never thought you, of all people, Darcy, would doubt your own powers of observation."

He grinned suddenly, and she didn't know why he stared at her that way—unaware that she had just referred to him without formality, or how the light in her eyes cut straight to his heart.

"Me of all people?" he asked. "You sound pleased that I lack the unflappable confidence you had incorrectly attributed to me."

"Am I that obvious? I must learn to be more circumspect around you, or you'll discover all my secrets and use them against me. No doubt for some nefarious purpose."

The teasing grin fell off his face, and he leaned in, whispering in her ear, "I hope to know all your secrets, Elizabeth. But I do not want to steal them. I want you to give them to me for safekeeping, as I intend on giving mine to you."

As swiftly as he had bent over her, he stepped back. "It is curious that you used that phrasing, though," he mused in a voice she could hardly understand. "Fitzwilliam said almost the exact thing to me a day ago—only he replaced acute for inept."

"Fitzwilliam? You mean Colonel Fitzwilliam?"

"I do." Darcy paused and searched her face. She wondered what he was looking for and wondered what he would find. After a moment, he trailed his distant gaze toward Jane and Bingley sitting near the open window and Elizabeth turned toward them as well.

"I would like to believe that he is mistaken and you are not," Darcy said. "But I am beginning to doubt that such is the case."

A welcome breeze sifted through the room. Darcy and Elizabeth watched a smattering of petals cascade onto Jane's shoulder and the delicate, hesitant way Bingley brushed them from her hair; the flush rising on Jane's cheeks and the admiration growing in Bingley's eyes. The silent, simple gestures of timid love intimated in every motion and every unheard breath between the two young persons within their view.

Darcy sighed and looked down at Elizabeth, his heavy exhale compelling her to look back up at him. "In fact, Elizabeth, in one case, I think I can now say indefinitely that my cousin is right."

Comprehension was slow to come. Elizabeth darted her eyes back and forth between her sister and her betrothed; a smile spreading over her puzzled expression. She could scarcely believe the proud Mr. Darcy had just admitted such a humble utterance. And by the frown on his face, neither could he.

_Note: Thanks for the critiques and reviews. I hope this shows the resiliency of Elizabeth's good humor and happy spirits. And as for Darcy, he is clever, but he is also incredibly inflexible in his opinions…until Elizabeth figuratively slaps him across the face with her refusal. I think the colonel's words were more of a shove and less of a smack in the jaw. So the evolution of Darcy's obtuseness (or, I like to think of it as pride) will unfold more tortuously._ _Cheers!_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter 12: Candid, sans 'E'**_

Colonel Fitzwilliam stood outside the towering manor, the bulky outline a great, stalwart mass in the night. He glanced over both shoulders, and finding himself alone, pushed open the iron gate. The grounds were silent as he jogged up the gravel path, the only sound the shuffle of his boots on the drive.

Some clouds scattered when he came to the ornate door. The light of the moon sprinkled across the shadows as dabbles of silver. Straightening his jacket and bearing, he reached out his hand and firmly tapped the knocker. The door opened and a woman stood before him. Her shockingly red hair was piled elegantly on her head, her evening gown clung scandalously to her figure, and although the blush on her cheeks was false, the sly smile brightening her expression was not. She could have been thirty or fifty, the smoothness of her skin leaving men and boys to wonder if she was the age of their mothers or sisters. No one wondered if she was a girl or a woman. However old she was now, it had been many years since she had been young.

"You are late, Fitzwilliam. I thought soldiers were always punctual."

Her voice carried a husky melody, traces of her French heritage and her talent for seduction. Fitzwilliam wondered when the performance had become the permanent. Bowing to her with a rigid spine, he apologized for his tardiness. She shrugged at his formality and swept away from the door.

"Come," she commanded.

Fitzwilliam wiped his boots and followed Lady Henley into her house, shutting the door behind him. The soft click of the latch sounded as a warning to him, one that he was not going to heed.

"Are you without a butler?" he asked, trailing the countess down the hallway. "Is there no servant at home?"

"I gave them the evening off."

"What? All your staff?"

"Yes—what does a lonely widow need with a whole house full of servants?"

"Is your son gone away also?"

"He is at school. It is a shame you could not dine with us the other week and see him before he left."

"I'm sure he is a good lad."

Fitzwilliam gazed all around the cavernous house, the hall and rooms emitting only the faintest glow. Hardly a candle had been lit within view. The palaciousness of the space made the darkness menacing.

"Excuse my forwardness, but do you think it was prudent to relieve your entire staff from duty? Don't you need a protector?"

Lady Henley halted abruptly and Fitzwilliam almost ran into her. When she spoke he could feel the warm splash of her breath on his skin. The aroma of her perfume wafted into his nose and from the distant flickers of light he could perceive the sultry grin on her lips.

"Aren't you sufficient, colonel?"

Without waiting for a reply, she flipped back around and sashayed through the door nearest to them. Wavering, Fitzwilliam turned and entered into a small drawing room. A fire blazed comfortably in the grate. The furniture bore the marks of wear and love. This was clearly a room reserved for dear friends and family only. The intimacy of the size and setting instantly unnerved him.

Lady Henley sat down on a lounge sofa, her dress fanning out and conforming to her form. Fitzwilliam crossed the room and chose a chaise opposite to her, rigidly resting on the edge of the cushion.

"Why do so many of the English aristocracy think servants live solely for them?" she asked, as though they had been continuously discussing the matter. "They have lives and hearts. If you cut them, do they not bleed?"

"I cannot say," Fitzwilliam replied. "I try to avoid cutting anyone if I can."

"A soldier without bloodlust—how original."

"Not very. Most of the bloodlust is found amongst the men who do not fight. Statesmen and orators are much thirstier than those who must drink the dregs of the bitter cup."

She raised one delicate brow and puckered her lips. "This will not do. We cannot delve into such ghastly debates so soon. It will spoil all the fun."

Effortlessly she transitioned the discussion to pleasanter topics. Fitzwilliam gradually reclined into the chair, enjoying the sumptuous delight of her appearance and the throaty music of her voice. Lady Henley was known for her radical crushes and infamous sensuality, but as she flitted from subject to subject without a pause or a stutter, her cautious admirer realized she had the best informed mind of any lady in his circle. He complimented her along those lines and she laughed at his erudite gallantry.

"You are original, do not deny it. That is what attracted me to you."

"That is a daunting thing to hear coming from such a one as you, Lady Henley."

"Please, call me Genviève."

"I believe that might cross a line."

"I plan on calling you Henry."

"I would never deny a lady any wish that I could within my power grant."

"The English are so peculiar about their formality and traditions."

"I cannot disagree, although I do not consider myself one of those Englishmen who cannot see past the rote and ritual. There are those in my family who might even deem me a firebrand because I don't discredit all whiggish thought."

She turned her face toward the fire for a moment, suddenly contemplative. Fitzwilliam tried again to quiet all the objections in his mind—the ones he had been ignoring since he had set out for her place tonight; the ones that had only increased in volume as the minutes ticked by. Her soft eyes found his again, and her seemingly bland question forced him to pay attention.

"You are related to Darcy of Pemberley, are you not?"

"I am."

"I thought so. I noticed your family name in his wedding announcement the other day. How exactly are you related?"

"We are cousins. His late mother was my father's sister."

"And are you close?"

Fitzwilliam hesitated. He had not spoken to Darcy since calling him out and tearing into his character. The memory of his outburst and Darcy's responding umbrage was raw, but their bond could not be shredded by one barbed argument, and he answered with a clear voice.

"Yes, as close as brothers."

Lady Henley hummed a sigh. "Derbyshire is a beautiful county. It almost reminds me of Normandy. The landscape is very dramatic. Perhaps I will visit there during the summer."

"Do you miss France?"

"I can't remember. At some point even our heartaches become just another part of who we are."

"How old were you when you came to England?"

"I was very young when I left—half the age of my son right now."

"That must have been difficult."

"Yes," she said quietly.

She bowed her head and played with the bracelets on her wrist, sliding them together in an uneven beat. Fitzwilliam worried he had pushed her too far, but his curiosity had overrun his courtesy. When he was about to apologize, she raised her face. The melancholic nostalgia had been cleared away from her luminous gaze and she smirked at him.

"Do you know her? Do you approve of her?"

"Who?"

"Your cousin's affianced, of course."

Fitzwilliam struggled to keep his eyes fixed on her face. The publication of Darcy's engagement was the reason he had finally succumbed to Lady Henley's repeated requests for him to call on her. The capitulation had not come easily. He had paced around his room at his brother's house for two days, had paced on the sidewalk around the corner from the countess' manor for a half an hour before breaching the grounds. His surrender had cost him some pride, whatever little he had left. But he was leeched of energy, of that carefree joy that had once characterized his personality. And seeking some excitement, some simple joie de vivre, he had convinced himself to seek it out by any means necessary. He could not pine for his cousin's bride forever.

"She will do well for my cousin," he said simply.

Lady Henley made an expression of mild amusement, her full mouth quivering at the corner. "High praise, Henry! I cannot decide if that reply makes me believe you hate the lady or are in love with her. 'She will do well for my cousin.' Only one trying to conceal his thoughts would say such an insignificant thing."

"You are too used to the intrigues of London, my lady. You see conspiracy everywhere."

This was spoken jestingly, but the countess saw through the mock levity. The note of falsity was even obvious to the colonel, and the jeer on his mouth tightened. Lady Henley lifted her chin and brazenly ran her gaze over him.

"So it is love. Is it enough that I should be jealous?"

"I cannot answer that for you, and you cannot take my answer as a confirmation of your surmises either."

"My secrets are many, you know. I will not reveal yours, I assure you. I only need to know how this revelation ought to affect my plans for you."

"Plans for me?"

Fitzwilliam unknowingly leaned toward her, hot across the neck and underneath his jacket. She was so rare, and in spite of the dangerousness of her attraction, he was drawn to her. Her allure struck him as wine to the blood or battle to the heart—he knew it was not love. It was enticement. Lady Henley shifted in her chair, elegant and decadent even in her unhurried gestures.

"Yes, colonel, I have plans for you. Only I cannot decide what they should be. Do I want you to make me respectable again—or to make you not respectable?"

Fitzwilliam sat back, resisting all the urges that were pummeling to the fore of his mind and tingling in the tips of his limbs. Coming here had been surrender enough, he could not completely abandon the high road for the easy path.

"Lady Henley I am not a man of the world. The traditions which you earlier scorned are values I cherish. Please, let us be friends, else I cannot stay here. I ought not to be here at all."

"You may not be a worldly man, but you are a man of the world. Let us laugh this off as my French candor. Do not leave me so soon. Surely, my interest in you, though shocking, is no surprise."

"No."

"You will stay?"

"For a little while longer."

She smiled, and for the second time this evening, Fitzwilliam wondered if she was aware of the sensuality of her ways, or if the art of temptation had become first nature to her.

"Tell me about this woman," she said silkily, "while you are here for a little longer. If she has captured two men's hearts she must be very_..._"

"She is a gentleman's daughter, if you are implying anything."

"Do you think I would mind if it was a _bon mariage_ or a _mésaliance_?"

"Your blood is bluer than mine, countess."

She shrugged daintily, picking at the pleats in her dress. "What does the color of blood matter? No matter what color it is in life, we all bleed out red in death. The blade of the guillotine cuts off the heads of kings as cleanly as it cuts off the heads of paupers. You English need a revolution to remind you that nobility is an illusion."

"The kind of nobility of which you speak is certainly transient, and can be wrested from our society by the brutality of zealous men, but there is a purer refinement, a joining of heritage and the individual that defies type and evokes the diviner parts of ourselves to stir."

"The best in the best of all possible worlds?"

"The best of all possible people, in the worst of all possible worlds."

"The soldier is a _philosophe_."

"The lady is a cynic."

"But no matter what sort of lady I am, you will not tell me about the lady who has sunk her teeth into you—will you?"

Lady Henley fell back into her sofa. Fitzwilliam laughed at her graceful sulking. He would not be goaded by Lady Henley's teasing eyes or voice. No matter the inducement, Elizabeth was not a subject he was willing to discuss.

"While the French are known for their candor," he mused. "We English are known for our reticence."

"Quel dommage," she pouted.

The colonel did not stay long after this exchange; the rest of the discussion passing in concise, clever banter on both sides. Lady Henley did not even rise when he excused himself, although she extended her hand, gripping his fingers tightly, and in that low voice begged him to call on her again soon.

"I refuse to throw another fête unless I am assured of your attendance."

"Then you are destined to be starved of entertainment and company for some time."

"I am starving already for both."

There was something different in her tone now, something indefinably lusty. He carefully unwound her clasp from his hand and stepped back.

"I have some business up north and then I will be in the country—"

"For the wedding?"

Her eyes sparkled as Fitzwilliam's dimmed.

"Come to me after," she whispered. "Perhaps we can break our fasts together."

Unprepared to say yes, undecided to say no, Fitzwilliam bowed and silently departed.

_Note: The colonel is trying. Poor guy. And I wasn't lazy and did the accents this time. Thanks for the reviews. Next chapter is Darcy and Elizabeth, and because I like the title so much I'll give it to you now: Something Wickham This Way Comes._ _(All my chapter titles are based on either lines or titles of works written by roughly 1810. Last chapter was based on one of Aesop's Fables, this chapter is, naturally, Voltaire's Candide, next Shakespeare…It goes along with the underlying philosophies shaping the characters' actions.) Cheers and happy weekend. Next chapter on Tuesday. _


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter 13: Something Wickham This Way Comes**_

Some say that the engagement period is the refiner's fire for couples; the stresses and pressures associated with this interval ebb and flow in varying degrees of vexation. Wedding plans must be made. Documents must be signed. Guests must be summoned. Spats spike up over the most trivial of matters—and fabrics. Moods teeter on the edge of panic. Individual wills are checked and broken. And above and beyond all the trappings and pomp of the celebration and ceremony, two families must converge; two lives must come together as one; two hearts must beat in harmony. This desired unification is difficult to achieve in ideal circumstances, and as Darcy and Elizabeth learned, impossible to achieve in any thing less than ideal.

The most major hiccup to breathing in the air of peaceful bliss, that Darcy had hoped would be nothing more than a sharp jab or two in the gut, was the dissolution of the Bennet family's association with Mr. George Wickham. For years Wickham had been a six-foot thorn in Darcy's side, but since his devious, attempted _coup de coeur_ with Georgiana this last summer, Wickham had become nothing more and nothing less than the proverbial bane of Darcy's mortal existence. Darcy had brought Georgiana to Netherfield with several reservations and one unalterable resolve: protect her from crossing paths with Wickham at all costs.

And so on the same interview when Darcy had received permission from Mr. Bennet to marry Elizabeth, he had informed his future father-in-law of the more important points of his relationship with his former childhood playmate and current nemesis. And eschewing the finer details, had emphatically requested that every Bennet, from the father to the fifth daughter to the housekeeper, no longer receive, recognize, or if possible, even remember Mr. Wickham. Mr. Bennet had appeared to find secret enjoyment out of Darcy's circumspect, bitter story, and pledged to do his best to make his wife and daughters aware of the new expectation, almost immediately following through on his word. Only to Mr. Bennet's amusement and Darcy's annoyance, that word had been greeted with abject horror.

The younger girls had justly blamed Darcy that their favorite would be an outcast to Longbourn. Kitty had voiced her displeasure, throwing her future brother-in-law fearful, loathsome glowers, but Lydia, blind to the aura of Mr. Darcy's prestige, had haughtily stormed up to him and called him out for his interference. Darcy had stared at Lydia, repulsed and amazed by her crude fit of fury. In that instant, he had silently vowed to dramatically taper down any interaction Georgiana could have with the Bennet women, thankful that his impressionable sister had been at Netherfield during the bawdy tantrum. Turning away from Lydia's rude antics, he had seen from the corner of his eye Mrs. Bennet rush up to her youngest and tear her away into another room. He had hoped that would be all vulgarities he would be forced to observe from Elizabeth's youngest sister.

Unfortunately the day following this incident, Lydia had been told that she could not accept Colonel Forster's wife's invitation to join the departing Meryton regiment as it took up its new quarters in Brighton. Erasing Wickham from her circle of acquaintances had been hard enough, but forbidding her to go with her friend had put Lydia on the point of hysterics. She had screamed and cried, kicked and stomped, and to her dismay, no one had cared. Her mother had unceremoniously shushed her and her closest sister Kitty had preened over her. This spoilt child, a girl who had never been made to obey, or forego any pleasure she had a whim for before, had within the span of a couple days been mandated into silence and obedience. She did not take the instruction in humility well, but when her father uncharacteristically had exerted himself enough to give her a direct invective, she had found herself forced into submission. She was quiet, she had surrendered, but she was not repentant. Most of her rancor evaporated, as her sisters and she found pleasure in the society of other officers and the silly fun of planning a wedding, but at every turn, at every opportunity, she would glare at Mr. Darcy, hiss his name under her breath, and curse the day Lizzy had pushed his society onto her family.

Darcy would never visibly react to Lydia's acidic stares, however, he would notice them and his impatience with Elizabeth's tiresome sisters and hatred for Wickham—whom he viewed as the main culprit behind the unwelcome scrutiny—would harden; each layer encasing his certainty and fortifying his low opinion of the family that would soon be considered his. Darcy and Elizabeth had never openly talked about the insidious man, and it was enough for Darcy, at least whilst still in the midst of the bristly, biased Bennets, that his betrothed had not grumbled about the forced defection of her family's affection for Wickham. Teetering on the edge of composure, constantly embattled by the Bennet family charms, he could not tempt his crumbling restraint by broaching the subject of George Wickham. For his tongue, once untied, might never cease to criticize and demean.

Whether it was the chary dislike of the younger siblings or the sycophantic attentions of the mother or the farcical reserve of the father, Darcy could barely abide any of it. He would seek out and reach for Elizabeth in these moments of brittle tolerance, or in those instances when his bride was not near him, he would turn to the only other Bennet he could stand—Jane. Although, when he looked upon the eldest Miss Bennet, it caused him a different sort of uneasiness.

It was now painfully evident to Darcy that he had sorely misunderstood Jane Bennet's heart. When he was first at Netherfield he had believed his assessment of her feelings to be accurate, unbiased, and thorough, but after studying Jane anew he had realized, with some mortification at his own blindness, that Jane was deeply in love with his friend. Humiliated, he advised Bingley to show caution, but he did not attempt to persuade him against pursuing Jane Bennet. Whereas Darcy had formerly thought her heart unlikely to be touched, he now thought it would be irretrievably damaged if Bingley did not propose.

It amazed Darcy that he had not perceived the truth of the matter before, that he had not noticed the glow of Jane's pretty face, that he had labeled her soft, simple admiration for his friend as indifferent reserve. He wondered where else in his life he had been so misguided, Fitzwilliam's chastisement coming back to him and making him take stock of his inclination to judge. As he weighed the balance of his evaluations on those surrounding him, he could find little fault in his original assessments. The tedious personalities of Elizabeth's family grated against him. The plebian absurdities of the Meryton social elite stifled him. All these artificial irritants clouded his mind from viewing the forest through the trees. He was too much in the thick of things to see the shallowness of his prejudices, too much exalted in his sense of rightness to do anything but look down his nose. The only person he attempted to see with a clear, unsatirical eye was Elizabeth. And he knew he was not seeing her clearly at all.

His betrothed would be teasing and playful, slanting that pretty brow of hers with arch mischievousness and laughing at him in the morning, and then by the setting of the sun, hardly speak a word to him. At times she would blush under his intent gaze, her bright eyes alive with tantalizing secrets, and at other times she would barely look directly at him. Their conversations always seemed so stilted these days; their interactions so formal, even in the rare, precious minutes of privacy when he would cup her cheek to his palm, brush his lips quickly across her mouth, or sweep an errant tendril from her brow. Regardless of the situation or surroundings she never appeared to be completely present with him.

Soon Darcy began to think Elizabeth did not like being engaged. He knew he was not enjoying the pleasure of courtship; and hoped it was the same for her. Perhaps she would remain capriciously withdrawn until they left for Pemberley. Elizabeth tried to shield him from as many of her connections as possible and with a willful tenacity; he chose to believe her preoccupied behavior was a mark of affection, not a sign of disinterest. Just as he chose to believe her silence on his banishing of Wickham to be a signal of her accord, not a waning of her respect. These beliefs saved him from the only other conclusion, which he could not bring himself to think about, that Elizabeth did not love him in return or that she still preferred another man from Derbyshire.

Elizabeth's family, her town, the specter of Wickham in the shadows of the alleys, crept around them, blocking out the glow of their love, blocking out Elizabeth's glow of love for him. Or so he told himself. Again and again.

~0~

Two days before the ceremony, Darcy and Elizabeth strolled through the hedgerows at Netherfield. Both the gentleman and the lady moved at a leisurely pace, with their hands folded behind their backs and their heads bowed. Georgiana had just left them, claiming a sudden need to rest on a nearby bench. It was the first time in days that the engaged couple had truly been alone, and both felt the hush of the unexpected solitude. The last week had been more hectic than all others combined. Bingley's sisters had returned to Netherfield, the Collinses had hailed from Rosings, escaping the ill-temper of their patroness, and Mrs. Bennet had been unyielding as a mighty river in parading her second daughter on the arm of her illustrious suitor through every house or hovel within twenty miles. Reluctant but resigned Darcy had endured these degradations, shrugging them off with cool disdain.

Darcy shook off the memory of the wearisome week, those cobwebs on his mind, by glancing at Elizabeth and tracing her charming profile with his eye. Sun and shadows outlined her face, haloing her skin with a shimmering glow, and he complimented her on her loveliness. Without looking up, Elizabeth muttered her thanks. On another day, at another hour, Darcy might have let the faint chill in her response pass away into the void of almost arguments, but on this day, with the furor of the wedding morning nearly within reach, and the weeks of frustration roaring in his ears, he could not ignore the almost slight.

"Is there something the matter, Elizabeth? Are you unwell or unhappy?"

"No."

"Then why won't you even look at me today?"

Elizabeth shuddered and turned to him, her large eyes swimming in an emotion he couldn't define. "I am not unwell or unhappy. I am merely contemplative."

"Contemplative?"

"Yes," she replied, with a small smile. "Are you telling me that you are always conversational—that you rarely engage in quiet reflection?"

"No, of course not, but we are not speaking about me," Darcy said, with a returning grin. "And yet, despite your professions of a taciturn nature, you are conversational and delight in discussion. Only ten minutes ago you were lively enough with Georgiana."

Elizabeth bit her lip, swiveling her gaze to a distant point on the horizon. She seemed to be searching for the right words, and after a long pause, slowly spoke.

"I wish I could have spent more time with Georgiana these past few weeks. I feel I have hardly had the chance to become acquainted with her. If I am more talkative with her, it is because I have not been granted the opportunity to reveal myself to her and her to me."

Darcy could not hide his surprise, or swallow the sigh of relief. "I had no idea you felt that way, Elizabeth. You should have told me and we could have passed more time at Netherfield. You have not been blind to the challenges that my spending so many hours at Longbourn has presented."

"No, indeed I have not."

"I thought you would prefer to be with your family."

"And do you prefer not to be with your family? Or do you prefer that your family is not too often with mine? Since almost Georgiana's first day in this part of the country, she has been shuttered away here at Netherfield."

Darcy turned on his heel and stopped, and Elizabeth halted beside him. She stared up at him, and although her voice had been calm and steady, a marshal glint now infused her eyes and a flush her cheeks.

"Shuttered away? Are you accusing me of making my sister a captive of Netherfield?"

"Those are your words, not mine."

"True, but that was the meaning of your words."

"Were the circumstances of Georgiana's choice or of your own? Tell me if she chose to stay here of her own volition and I will frankly apologize for whatever implications, imagined or real, that I have made."

A righteous indignation aroused in his blood, and Darcy waited until he thought he had chilled his temper. "Georgiana was here for her own protection."

"Protection? Protection from what? From whom? My sisters? My mother?"

"In part," Darcy clipped, uneager to pursue this discussion.

"In part," Elizabeth cried. "So you admit it?"

"What is there to admit? You have been a witness to it. I have not concealed my lack of enthusiasm for your relations becoming my relations, although I have been as courteous as grace or propriety demands while in your neighborhood"

"Only under the strictest of definitions."

"I am not claiming to have followed the spirit of the law, merely the letter."

"And what of Georgiana? What claims do you make on her behalf?"

"What claims would you have me make?"

"The truth—is that so impossible to understand?"

Angry and offended, Darcy instinctively veered away from any mention of Wickham—unconsciously seeking to avoid beholding any leaping light, any flash of regret in Elizabeth's eyes. Whatever platitudes he had soothed his ruffled pride with over these last, uncomfortable weeks, he still harbored doubt that Elizabeth had totally forsaken her good opinion of Wickham.

"Truth, Elizabeth," he began in a husky accent, "is the pursuit of my life and the stuff of my dreams. It is the only thing that matters. Georgiana did not choose this situation for herself, but she is aware of why I chose it for her—the more pressing reasons, at least. And we have already discussed the reasons valid to you. You speak of truth as though it was a matter of niceties, but truth is rarely nice. Truth is what I have been offering you. Truth is why you are offended by me. Would you rather I flatter you with falsities about the happy influence your sisters might have over Georgiana? Or rejoice in the attentions your mother would seek to shower upon her?"

Elizabeth looked down for a moment, her breath heavy and loud, before answering him in quiet rage. "My mother and sisters are silly, and aggravating, but they are not malicious. Do you think Georgiana does not know her own self well enough to be overcome with a sudden fit of the giggles or innocuous flirtation with men in redcoats if she were to spend a few days, even a few weeks with my family? What must you think of Jane and me? How have we survived these many years? Or perhaps you think we are as susceptible to mockery and contempt as the rest of my family."

"I would never ridicule Jane or you—"

"But you would my sisters?"

So hot and heated was their discussion that neither Darcy nor Elizabeth realized that their voices had carried over the stately hedges, and that their argument had acquired an audience, until Caroline Bingley delicately coughed. Darcy and Elizabeth's faces instantly transformed into pale stone and they whipped around. Miss Bingley stood a few feet away, smiling sweetly, with a hand daintily alongside her mouth.

"Pardon me, I did not mean to interrupt your…conversation," she said. "I was just looking for Georgiana. I saw her leave with you about an hour ago."

"She needed to rest," Darcy flatly replied. "She has probably gone inside by now."

"Or taken refuge in the shade of some tree," Elizabeth supplied with equal apathy.

Darcy and Elizabeth paused, waiting for the eavesdropper to evaporate again into the shadows, but Miss Bingley stood her ground, dragging out the moment to the most excruciatingly embarrassing limit. The awkwardness became palpable, a bitter thickness in the air. At last, Miss Bingley moved, _toward_ Darcy and Elizabeth.

"Oh, dear, well this is most uncomfortable, isn't it?" She pursed her lips together. "I wouldn't normally insert myself into a private affair, but I cannot in good conscience leave without first defending what I know to be true."

"Please do not exert yourself on our behalf, Caroline."

"It is for your own good, Darcy," she simpered. "I cannot pretend that I did not hear some of your discussion, and having been your close acquaintance for so many years, I will not tolerate the defaming of your character, even if it is by your own, or soon to be, family."

Darcy saw Elizabeth's cheeks flame with color, and he stepped in between his bride and his unwanted defender.

"That is not necessary. I assure you. You are mistaken, if you believe me incapable of defending myself or indeed in need of any defense."

"Miss Eliza" Caroline called, walking past Darcy, utterly ignoring him. "Now I know we have not always seen eye to eye about a certain person in the militia, whose name I will not mention, but we have always enjoyed an amount of frankness in our conversations. And despite what you may think or how divergent our opinions are about other persons, I can vouch for Mr. Darcy's honesty. In all our discussions last fall about your family, he never once said a bad word about either you or your elder sister."

"Thank you Caroline," Darcy said tersely, failing to read Elizabeth's expression of stony restraint.

"I am not done, Darcy," Caroline sang. She flashed him a quick, cunning glance and put a hesitant hand on Elizabeth's shoulder. "Dear Miss Eliza, as your betrothed has admitted, he has never held the rest of your family in very high regard. As much as I hate to confess it, Mr. Darcy does have a sharp tongue at times, and an even sharper wit. Why I remember one time, after your family had been dining here, that when he heard that your youngest sister was referred to as a local beauty, he responded that he would as soon call your mother a wit."

Darcy remembered that night, remembered that comment—only he remembered what the comment had really been and where his wit had really been directed, and after another spiteful glance of glee by Caroline, he knew she remembered it as well.

"Caroline," he warned.

Caroline leaned away and shook her head at Elizabeth with false sympathy. "You cannot accuse him of dishonesty Miss Eliza because his brand of honesty does not suit your sensibilities. And do not judge him too harshly because of that one thoughtless critique on your beauty…" Caroline gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. She shot her wide gaze to Darcy and mumbled into her palms. "Oh how foolish of me, Darcy. I had forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" Elizabeth coldly asked.

Caroline darted her eyes between the white-faced Darcy and the red-cheeked Elizabeth, and dropping her hands away from her face, whispered, "It was your beauty he mocked. Oh, I feel terrible. I think…I think I really must go now. How embarrassing!"

And with that, she turned around and strode back toward the house. When her swaggering figure had completely faded into the shrubbery and shadows, Darcy had found enough poise to face his bride. Elizabeth had not spoken, had barely breathed. A speckle of pink peppered her skin, but the spotted flush was the only evidence of her discomfort.

"I cannot account for Miss Bingley's behavior, but I do heartily apologize…"

His voice trailed off as Elizabeth, without saying a word, flipped around and started marching down the path. He watched her for a moment, before hurrying after her. Despite the quickness of her retreat, he reached her side within a few, long strides.

"Do not play into Caroline's hands so easily. You know her well enough to realize she would only take delight in vexing us."

Elizabeth glanced at him and shook her head, speeding up her pace. Darcy did as well.

"I cannot believe I am forced to stoop to such levels, as to race after you, but I think it is hardly necessary for me to refute my earlier opinions on your physical attractions. You are beauty itself to me now."

Elizabeth stopped short and twirled around to him. "You think I am angry because of injured vanity?"

"No, I think you are angry for several reasons, but I think you are running because of what Caroline said."

"And what she said—is it true?"

"It is true that I said it," Darcy hedged. "It is not true that I still think it."

In after years, Darcy would never forget the look that descended over Elizabeth's face as she spoke her next words. It would haunt him for days; haunt him as the war haunted his cousin. There was a mixture of exasperation and exhaustion, a flutter of disgust and disdain that briefly tarnished her pretty, fair face.

"Please do not seek to follow after me or touch me in any way. And if you say one word more, I know I will say things that I may live to regret. Please just let me be. I will return to my family and you will return to yours. And for a little while, I will be able to forget that in two days' time we will be family."

Elizabeth turned back around, squaring her slender shoulders and lifting her skirts, and Darcy wordlessly watched her walk away. He watched her as long as he could see her. He watched her even after she had disappeared.

_Note: Thanks for the reviews. Thanks to those who review every time. Sorry this is later for today. It took more time than I thought. And the Wickham play on words in the title has various meanings. Both Darcy and Wickham have a way of appearing as one thing and being something, or someone, else. I hope Darcy came across as less "dopey" and more discerning. Love is blinding, though. And I always think of what he tells E at the end, that he really believed she was waiting for and hoping for his proposal at the Parsonage. We see what we want to see…_


	14. Chapter 14

_(Sorry this post is late…I've had technical difficulties. Grrr. Technology.)_

_**Chapter 14: A Letter Concerning Intolerance**_

_Dearest Elizabeth, _

_Words cannot describe how deeply I regret our argument from yesterday. A harsher reproof does not exist than the one you unknowingly gave me when you entreated me not to follow you and turned away from me. And in spite of your ardent plea to say no more, which was likely the most prudent recourse after so much had already been said, I must demand your attention now and write what you forbade me to say then. Pardon me for the openness with which I must address you, and know that if I did not hold your good judgment in such high esteem, it would be impossible for me to write this necessary letter. _

_The improprieties so frequently displayed by your mother, your three younger sisters, and though it pains me to write it, occasionally even your father, are by no means a new development or an outgrowth of the hectic period of our engagement; they were the primary obstacles in my forming any serious designs on you. Above and beyond whatever material want your family faultlessly suffers from, it is their want of manners and decorum that from the first stayed my hand and continues to offend. _

_When I was at Netherfield this fall, I rarely scrupled to hide my poor opinions of your family, and in fact, still trying to deny my growing attraction to you, I did sometimes overstate them, particularly to my willing listener and constant, unavoidable companion, Miss Bingley. It is not my intent to plead on Miss Bingley's behalf—she is capable of defending herself if she so chooses—however, I feel obligated to provide some context. In addition to my thoughtless remarks from many months ago, I did allow her to mock your family in my presence since her return to Netherfield. I could not be persuaded to join in on her merriment, but I did not discourage it, either. _

_On the morning of my disagreement with you, Miss Bingley's cruel wit on your family was flowing along, unchecked, until her brother came into the room and put a stop to it. Looking back on this, I realize that despite my personal hardships with your family, I should have been their defender. But as you undoubtedly know, Bingley has a vested interest in their welfare as well. In truth, he has been at odds with Caroline over her treatment of your sister Jane during the winter—which from some of your comments and more, from Jane's comments to Bingley, I gather you are aware of—and it all came to a head yesterday morning. Bingley's rebuke caused an uncharacteristically vehement dispute between himself and his sister, with Miss Bingley coming out of the row as the clear loser. Mr. Hurst and I were the lone witnesses to the argument and it was only after that gentleman called his wife down that it ended. _

_This leads me to confess something that I should have told you in person, and something which became an uncomfortable sticking point in Bingley's dispute with his sister—my role in Bingley's absence from Netherfield over the winter months. Shortly after his departure following the ball here, his sisters and I discovered a shared anxiety for his future happiness and probable choice in spouse, and without delay, joined him in town and convinced him to remain there ever after, incorrectly persuading him that Jane was disinterested. I need not add the other reasons I gave him then, as you have heard them from my own mouth and now from my pen, and you should know that none of the domestic impediments which gave me pause held much sway with my friend. It was Bingley's modesty about his own charms, and his belief in your sister's indifference to them, that kept him in town. I learned, from Miss Bingley, of your sister's residence in London almost upon her arrival there, but Bingley remained ignorant of it. Not long after you and I were engaged, however, I informed Bingley of Jane's whereabouts and admitted my concealment of the facts. _

_I do not write these things in an effort to condone my behavior and condemn your family, but to put forth the evidence of my strong attachment to you. Nothing short of a very real and abiding love would induce me to offer my hand to a woman with a family which, on my best day and their best day, falls short of inspiring a mutual fondness. And in regards to your sister, and my friend, I feel nothing but wonder at my obtuseness, and gratitude that my intervention ended in futility. Yet, even now, I cannot totally denounce my actions. Nothing has changed in either your family's situation or comportment to encourage me to completely forsake my former caution. To wit, Georgiana's distance from them has been expressly done. Rest assured, however, that your family alone did not cause the rift that you thought was unnecessary and overbearing on my part. _

_While my protectiveness of my sister is related to your family's dubious conduct, it is more directly connected to someone else's much worse and much more depraved conduct. You cannot be at a loss to understand the person in question. Mr. Wickham is the man, and the primary cause, behind my decision to keep Georgiana's interactions with your sisters at a minimum. I do not know what your opinion of that gentleman is now, but a supposition of what it once was, compels me to lay before you the pertinent history of his dealings with my sister._

_Mr. Wickham and I had a falling out over a dispute about what was owed him after my father's death, but I will not tire your patience with the particulars of our financial disagreements. The true fruits of his perfidy did not mature until after he had given up hope of gaining his fortune through me; I only mention the former pecuniary circumstances to make you aware of the roots of his deceit. It was in Ramsgate, with my sister as the unsuspecting victim and her lady's companion, a Mrs. Young, the accomplice, that Mr. Wickham revealed how far he would sink to procure his wealth. Over the course of a few weeks he convinced my sister that she was in love with him, and that the only way to prove that love was to secretly elope. By mere chance, I arrived just before the night of their planned elopement, and to Georgiana's credit, she informed me of her plans. Needless to say, I wasted no to time in forcing Wickham to abandon his designs, and my sister's considerable dowry. _

_Months later, and Georgiana is still in recovery. A shy creature by nature, the duplicity of Wickham has only pushed her to turn further inward. I could not have her spend countless hours with your sisters as they passed countless hours with the officers. The risk was too great, and the reward nonexistent. Georgiana would be better served practicing her instruments than to run into Wickham par hazard, and her tender sensibilities pointlessly and inescapably roughened by the coarseness of your family's behavior. _

_My inclination is to disclose all to you on my hopes for you and my wishes for her, but my pen must rest on this subject. The morning has passed into the afternoon, and I must seek you out to deliver this letter into your hands. _

_Yours,_

_F.D. _

When Elizabeth finished reading Darcy's letter, she was so shocked and eager, that she immediately read it again. The cycle repeated itself twice more. Her eyes skimmed over the passages, her mind barely catching the meaning, and her heart racing with dread and disbelief. During the third perusal she began to feel some calm, to pick out the intent from the content, to sort out the astonishment from the horror, and to slowly break down her own muddled mass of thoughts. And then, and only then, did she remember that Darcy was leaning against the tree opposite to her rocky perch and watching her.

He moved slightly or the wind gusted over Oakham Mount or a bird flapped by, whatever it was, something wavered in her periphery, beckoned her attention back to the present, and she startled. She turned her face up and blinked rapidly into the brilliance of the sunny day, her vision still altered by the whiteness of the paper and her eyes blind to the rolling beauty of her favorite view. She locked her gaze on Darcy's shaded face and waited. Things had never been easy between them, but after yesterday, they were that much harder. He had been more formal today, and she had been more formal in return. The marks of a restless night marred both their young faces, but neither Darcy nor Elizabeth could see beyond their own hurt. After a moment Darcy strolled out from the shadow of the tree and approached the mossy boulder Elizabeth was using as an impromptu bench.

"You are a remarkably fast reader," he said. "Which given your love of books, is to be expected. Still, I know it was lengthy."

"It was, but I managed to read it all, three times."

He raised his eyebrows, surprised or impressed, she couldn't tell. "And do you have any questions? Perhaps it was overly fastidious of me, but I wanted to remain nearby in order to address any issues…"

His voice drifted off with the steady breeze. She bowed her head and meticulously folded the letter back over its creases, grappling for time and articulation. She had not expected anything from him by way of an apology or explanation, and when he had given her a thick envelope minutes ago she had dutifully but reluctantly accepted it, still devoid of any expectation. But now, after reading it, she wished she had been more intuitive, and had begged to peruse the letter in private. The first blush of her impression of it was much too complicated for expression, and certainly for eloquence.

Darcy had revealed so much, almost too much. The scathing recital about Wickham alone stunned her into silence. She had been so angry when her father had flatly forbidden her family from continuing intercourse with Wickham, bothered by Darcy's domineering and distant ways. She had known it would be so, from the moment she had said yes to Mr. Darcy, she had known all connection with Wickham would at some point be disbanded, but the manner in which Darcy had handled it had rankled her. He had been absurdly heavy-handed with her father and inordinately contemptuous towards her theatrical but justifiably bewildered sisters. Confused, Elizabeth tried to recall some actual good she had witnessed in Wickham, some instance of virtue, but she could not. His manners had been so pleasing and engaging, his appearance so good, that she had never questioned his goodness. But, if she were to believe Darcy, Wickham was not worthy of any gentlewoman's attention. He was not worthy of anything.

Darcy called her name, and that softness, the one that alternately baffled and bewitched her, was there in his voice. She raised her gaze again, and asked the first thing that lifted up from the jumbled mist in her mind and fell from her lips.

"Did Mr. Wickham truly attempt to seduce Georgiana? I don't believe he would do such a thing."

As soon as the incredulous words escaped her mouth, she regretted them. Darcy's dark brow flashed with anger and he answered in a much harsher voice than before. She could see the strain of his rising temper in the flex of his jaw.

"Mr. Wickham has a talent at ingratiating himself into other people's lives and infesting their unsuspecting hearts with his false adoration. If he has managed to beguile yours, do not be too hard on yourself. You were not the first, nor unfortunately, will you be the last."

Elizabeth gasped. Warmth and color filled her cheeks and after a pause, she stuttered out her reply. "I never meant to imply that he has personally enchanted me. I was merely expressing my astonishment at his ability to enchant. I had no reason to doubt his truthfulness."

"You have no reason to doubt mine, either."

Once more a silent gasp blew out from her mouth, as though his words had physically slapped her. She stood up and spun away from him, unable to see him any longer and unwilling to let him see her. Her eyes dropped to the letter still clutched in her hands and some of the less flattering truths he had written about her family jumped up from the crammed handwriting.

"I have no reason to doubt your truthfulness. You are absolutely right. How could I doubt the depths of your honesty?" She turned around and shook the letter at him. "I have pages of proof of your very honest disapproval of my family."

Darcy was not cowered by her fervor, and icily replied, "I would rather err on the side of truth, than on deception."

"There is a difference between lies and withholding our tongues," she cried. "Some things are better left unsaid."

"And other things ought to have been said much sooner. I should not have permitted my future wife to nurse soft feelings for a man like Mr. George Wickham. You questioned if he could have possibly been so degenerate as to seduce Georgiana. It is more than possible, it is incontrovertible fact. He is all that is despicable in this world. The blackguard can spin a lie so well that his prey never knows that they are entrapped until it is too late. My sister nearly got coiled in his web, and I fear my bride has as well."

Elizabeth stared at him, and behind the white indignation and suppressed bitterness, she saw a flicker of pain in his eyes. Her own face softened. Suddenly all the verve and violence drained out of her. The one thing she always tried to remember, the one thing she knew for certain about this man that she was still uncertain about, was that he loved her.

"Mr. Wickham did engage me, but he did not entice me," she sighed. "I am perfectly unscathed by him. You ask me to believe you, and I ask you to believe me. But why did you wait until now to tell me about him? I would not have pressed the issue with Georgiana if I had known."

Darcy looked at the letter, now dangling in her wilted hand, and then tiredly looked back up at her face. His wrath had faded as quickly as hers. For the first time since he had called on her this afternoon, she noticed how exhausted he appeared. He took a slow step toward her, and she didn't feel the impulse to flee.

"I had hoped to wait until after our marriage to broach the subject with you. It is not something I discuss lightly. I did inform your father of it, though, on the day I asked for his blessing."

"My father knows?"

"He knows of Wickham's general debauchery, I did not reveal his specific licentiousness with my sister. I did not think it was necessary. Although, I suspect your father may have very well guessed at the full reason behind my request."

Elizabeth nodded woodenly at him. She was spent in both body and spirit, and sinking back down onto the boulder, gazed out at the green squares of earth and the copper rows of grass. For the whole of their engagement she had tried as best she could to think well of her future husband, and at times she had truly succeeded. At times, it hadn't even been difficult to succeed, to enjoy his smiles and laugh with him, but then he would act so coldly and dispassionately toward her neighbors, her friends, and most especially, toward her family, and she would be thrown back several feet in her progression towards liking him, stranded miles away from loving him. And now to all this, she must add the complexity of Mr. Wickham's lechery and lies.

She glanced up at Darcy. The sun's rays were bleaching his dark hair almost blond and his handsome face was infused with the soft, afternoon light. In that moment, for the first time, she wished she loved him. For weeks she had seen Jane's joy beautifully unfurl, her tender heart bursting with love. And as much goodwill existed between the two sisters, Elizabeth had felt the twinge of jealousy. She coveted Jane's happiness, craved her simple peace. But Darcy's letter was still crinkled in between her fingers, the majority of the sheets filled with calculating and deficient explanations about her family, and she remembered why she did not share her sister's fate, why she did not love already.

"Please tell me what you are thinking," Darcy suddenly breathed. "I would rather hear your thoughts than stand here and guess at them. Trust me when I tell you that I fear your reticence far more than your bluntness."

Elizabeth started and blushed, realizing that he had been studying her as intently as she had been studying him. Thinking, she rubbed the tips of her fingers across the print. Everything about the letter was too new and the information too raw, and even if she had wanted to delve into a deep discussion with him about his manifold offenses toward her family, and by extension herself, she was in no mind to do so right now. It would change nothing at this point and nothing good would come to either of them should she let slip another errant, half-formed impression. If she had bled one drop of wisdom from this dry rock, it was to more cautiously choose her words. He waited for her response and she tentatively waded into the portion of his letter that had only caused her a trifling, amused annoyance.

"You did not need to go into so much detail over Miss Bingley," she said. "I have hardly spared her a single thought since yesterday."

"I must confess myself more than a little surprised."

"I can well believe that. After my hasty departure following her interruption, what other conclusion could you surmise?"

"If she was not the main reason for your flight, may I ask what was?"

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, delaying once more. These were the murky waters she was loath to swim through right now. Sincerity is what he claimed to want from her, and so she haltingly answered. "I…I believe I need more time to reflect on what you wrote before I can give you my reply, but I freely offer you this token of my candor—I harbor no secret grudges against you for your previous attacks on my beauty. My _vanity_ is not in jeopardy of certain ruin."

The eagerness cleared away from his face, and following a heavy pause, he murmured his acquiescence. Elizabeth sighed and slipped the letter back into the envelope. She circled the wax seal with her thumb. By tomorrow evening this would be her family crest. But she had all night to think on that—today was crowded with other reflections.

"We should probably make our way back to Longbourn," she mused, standing up. "Kitty will soon return from Lucas Lodge and once our absence is discovered the entire neighborhood will set their hounds on us and shepherd us directly into the churchyard."

"And would you meet me at the altar without the hunting party's teeth at your heels?"

The dry smile that had been hovering around Elizabeth's lips vanished at his words. Darcy had not spoken them bitterly or accusingly, but each syllable had been full of a quiet, earnest curiosity. He did not wait for her to reply, but dutifully offered her his arm, and meekly, she accepted it.

_Note: Thanks for all the reviews. I hope this helps, a little, to clear up Lizzie's mind. I never thought last chapter would be considered the BIG blowout, only the warm up. I didn't think anyone would actually believe she left because of what Caroline had specifically said about her looks. She wasn't lying when at the end of last chapter she told Darcy her vanity wasn't injured. And I always thought that if Darcy could have been there to watch Elizabeth read the letter, he would have. Austen describes him as fastidious and haughty, and I think a very fastidious, haughty person would be inclined to make sure their words were perfectly understood. Cheers. The title is simply Le nozzi de Fitzwilliam. Sorry again for the late post. I'll post another chapter tomorrow, so long as my internet doesn't go down again. _


	15. Chapter 15

_**Chapter 15: Le nozzi di Fitzwilliam Darcy**_

Elizabeth rose with sun on the morning of her wedding day. She carefully folded back the sheets and climbed out of bed, pausing once or twice as Jane stirred beside her. The wooden planks of the floor were cool against her bare feet and the chill of dawn clung to her thin nightgown as she moved to the window. She peeked out through the drapes. The sun spread an orange glow over everything and the crystalline dew hovered over the fields as a low fog. She soaked in the sight, memorizing every glittering detail of the view, knowing that this would be the last time she ever looked upon it with the same eyes.

Sighing she stepped back, and with cold fingers, picked up Darcy's letter laying open on the desk beside her. From the light of the young dawn she read it for the first time today, the dozenth time since yesterday, and she decided, for the last time ever.

She was in a fair way of memorizing the contents of the letter, and her eyes skipped over entire paragraphs and skimmed over others. Her gaze and thoughts lingered on certain passages, some that vexed her and some that stirred a very different sort of emotion in her. Despite the number of times she had read it, despite how well she knew it, she still came away from it with nearly as much confusion as when she had first read it. His commentary on her friends and family was insensitive, at best. His compunction for his actions in regards to Jane and Bingley was adequate, at best. Only the history of Wickham stood out as the one shocking but unambiguous disclosure, and with that gentleman now far away in Brighton, Elizabeth could only hope to convey to Darcy in the coming months her gratitude for his intervention—she could not in good conscience consider it an interference any longer. The remembrance of her biased preference for Wickham shamed her, for she realized that it had all grown out from his superficial flatteries and her petted vanity. And with the heat of self-blame on her neck, she turned her thoughts back to Darcy, regretting her hasty condemnation of his character based on her first impression of him and equally regretting that she could not completely disavow all the acrimony of that initial judgment.

What had gone wrong with those two gentlemen, she wondered. Why couldn't the one who was wicked always appear wicked, and the one who she was beginning to believe was good, always appear good? Something in their rearing must have gone awry. Other men and women could live and breathe without so effortlessly masking their true selves and confounding those who sought to understand them—Darcy's cousin for instance.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had flitted along the edges of Elizabeth's consciousness for some weeks, at times representing a mere contrast to Darcy and other times, materializing as a missed opportunity. Whatever the colonel was to her, or could have been to her, she never really allowed herself to examine. Yet, with Darcy's letter in hand, Fitzwilliam stood as a refutation to the notion that men always disguised their inner natures. The colonel came across as kind, gracious, and honorable, and from her own interaction with him and the high praise about him from both Georgiana and Darcy, Elizabeth knew he was kind, gracious, and honorable. He was all that he appeared to be. Surely he would never mock his inferiors and scorn his bride's own blood and kin. Surely he would not shift from ardent lover to reserved moralizer within the space of a few moments or the lines of a few sentences. Surely she could have formed a firm, unequivocal attachment to him by now had he proposed to her on their walk at Rosings, instead of withdrawing that unexplored expectation.

This recollection brought to mind the story that Elizabeth had not thought about for many days; the story that had unconsciously inspired her to say yes; the story that had some how moved her to see something more in Darcy's make-up than callousness and arrogance: the story of the young lady he had saved from wretched destitution. Underneath the disdain and snobbery, that man must exist. Possessing a disposition to be happy, and a desire to be satisfied, Elizabeth was placing all her dreams on the wish that Darcy's conduct toward that sad fallen creature had not been the exception but the illustration of his character.

Spinning away from the window, she walked toward the cold grate and tore up the letter. With her gaze fixed on the future, she threw the mangled pieces into the blaze-less hearth. By tonight the words would be turned to embers, and by tonight her past would be turned into cinders. All she could hope was that something good and beautiful rose from the ashes.

~0~

Darcy stood before the large mirror in his dressing room at Netherfield, toying with the cufflinks on his suit jacket. He could not see the cufflinks without thinking of their former owner, his father. Recently the late Mr. Darcy had often been on his son's mind. Darcy wondered what patriarchal counsel he would have received at the end of his bachelordom and the beginning of the rest of his life, what advice he could have savored for all his days and passed onto his progeny. This day should have been the happiest of his life, yet he was beleaguered by suspicions. He had doubts and no answers, questions and no one to whom he could pose them. Today the wish of hearing his father's voice once more burned as never before. And if Darcy had been a different man, the desperate longing for a wise counselor, a beloved parent, might have drawn a tear from his eye. Stoic to the core, though, he stifled out the deep ache and suppressed the fears. He would not think about his lack of a confidant, and after two sleepless nights, he would no longer think of the lack in his relationship with Elizabeth.

Darcy was just turning away from the mirror when Bingley, grumbling incoherently, burst into his room and slumped down into an overstuffed chair. Before the door swung shut, Darcy thought he glimpsed a flash of red—the exact color of Miss Bingley's hair.

"Problems?" Darcy asked.

"Problems, as in plural? No. Problem as in the singular problem of my sister? Yes. Quite definitely."

"I am sorry you're out of spirits."

"Sorry? You need not apologize. I am sorry about Caroline, and since she refuses to repent, I suppose I am also sorry _for _Caroline."

"It does not matter."

"It does to me. For I know I was the intended target the other day when she eavesdropped on you and then came scurrying in to brag about it to me. I can't think of a more irksome person than her. Truly, I have grown weary of her airs."

"She is leaving after the wedding, isn't she?"

"Yes," Bingley answered distractedly. He shook his head, clearly annoyed. "I cannot believe what she did. Nay, what she said! To reveal what you had said in confidence about the Bennet family!"

"It would have come out eventually," Darcy shrugged. "Your sister merely nudged it along. And you need not look so stricken; Caroline's little joke wasn't quite as stinging as she had hoped. I have assurances on that score. You can inform her that she ought not to gloat too loudly about her success."

"Be that as it may, I am to blame, at least partially, for her rude behavior to Lizzy—

"Lizzy?" Darcy cut in, amused. "Since when has Miss Elizabeth become Lizzy to you?"

Bingley waved his hand and scoffed. "Oh, it is how Jane always refers to her—and the rest of her family. Come to think of it, I'm surprised you haven't taken to calling her Lizzie. I know I will once…"

"Yes?" Darcy prodded. "Bingley—are you finally going to get to the point and propose?"

His friend smiled, a lopsided, embarrassed rumple on his lips. He tapped his heels against the floor and flicked at his chair's armrests. All his exasperation transformed into nervous energy.

"Soon enough."

"You're demonstrating an unnatural amount of reserve here."

"Yes, well, I am a little gun shy, but I think I can finally trust my own judgment. I know what you believe, but I wanted to see it for myself."

"And what do you see?"

Bingley bit his lip and ran his fingers through his hair, quietly laughing to himself. "Love," he sighed. "I see her love."

If_ Bingley_ had been a different man, he would have heard the falsity in his friend's congratulations.

~0~

The ceremony was beautiful, or so everyone said. Sir William Lucas boasted at the wedding luncheon that Darcy was absconding with the brightest jewel of the neighborhood. Mrs. Bennet swooned that the Earl of Matlock and his wife were in attendance at her daughter's wedding. Even Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had to dab a few sentimental tears from their eyes. The luminosity of the bride and groom beguiled all to believe in the couple's perfect bliss—all except one.

Colonel Fitzwilliam studied the man he knew the best and the woman he unwillingly loved the best, and perceived the edge in their smiles and the discomfort in their touch. He tried to shirk away the unhappy thought. He did not want it to implant him with futile hope or foster within him an ungenerous satisfaction in his cousin's discontent.

Over the last month he had thrown himself into every possible activity, and kept his head about the very tempting and very dangerous Lady Henley. Although he had not been in town, she had persisted in sending him notes and writing him letters. His resistance to her forwardness had endowed him with a steadier resolve, and reminded him that he did not have to bend to the forces of the heart or the flesh. Reason and rightness could rule. In the exercise of the body and the enlightenment of the mind, he could find ample sources of consolation. If he did have to look away when Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged rings, or clench his fist as the groom kissed his bride, he still counted the mastery of his feelings as a success. Elizabeth was now his cousin's wife—his most beloved cousin's wife. She neither would nor should look at him again, if indeed she ever had. And if he could only convince himself of their joy, if he could only forget the quiet unease on their faces when they thought no one else was looking, he might actually be able to accept the finality of his unrequited admiration.

Within good time, the colonel, and all the others invited to Longbourn, bade farewell to the newly-married couple. Elizabeth gently hugged her sisters, and quickly kissed her mother and father. Darcy shook hands with his uncle, friend and cousins, and drew Georgiana in for a tender embrace. They then fled down the path under a shower of petals and cheers, the sun shining down and the wonders of promise all around. Mrs. Bennet cried tears of joy as she happily waved her first married daughter out the door; Mr. Bennet merely looked the part of the father of the bride.

No one—not even the colonel—guessed at his sadness. His true emotions were well hidden beneath his rational mien as he watched his favorite daughter drive away from her home, away from her life, and away from him. He was the last to return to the house, slowly shuffling back to a Longbourn without his Lizzy.

_Note: Thanks for the reviews. Sorry it's a bit shorter than the others. The next part of the story fit better as a chapter than as a lengthy addendum at the end of this chapter. And I had to laugh about the 'Divergent' review. After reading it, I realized I had watched the movie the day I finished and posted that chapter. Haha. Nothing's better for escape than a good YA series. And with that one in particular, although I thought the plot was a little thin by the third book, I didn't hate the way the story ended. I do love me some angst…clearly. Cheers!_


	16. Chapter 16

_**Chapter 16: Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to...believe**_

Elizabeth gazed back at the retreating view of her childhood home until the carriage turned into the main road. When she could no longer discern the outline of her father, her eyes and heart seized up with sorrow. The fracture of her old life from her new one struck her deeply, in spite of all her hours of preparation and reflection, and before she could compose herself, unbidden tears began to fall.

The young bride crumpled, and she suddenly felt her husband take her broken figure into his embrace. Reflexively, she stiffened as he pulled her into him, more out of surprise than disgust. But Darcy immediately and abruptly released her, as though stung by her reaction.

"Since my touch does not seem to give you any comfort, is there something else I might do for you to relieve your present distress Elizabeth?"

"I…I am only upset by going away from my family. You need not exert yourself to commiserate with me in a matter so wholly unconnected to your own sympathies."

"Whatever ails you is my concern now. Whether I can feel as you do is not the issue."

"Then, thank you for your kindness. I will be well."

Their voices had resonated with the same terse timbre. Darcy had stared out the window and Elizabeth had kept her head bowed, wicking the tears away from her cheeks. And now that their curt exchange had ended, they remained in their separate, isolated poses; the silence in the carriage thick with unspoken words.

The silence persisted for several minutes, as neither Darcy nor Elizabeth could curb the anger and hurt roiling beneath their cool exteriors. The gentleman blamed himself for allowing his wounded pride to seep out as resentment, and blamed Elizabeth for willfully misunderstanding him, again. His thoughts only grew darker and darker. The bride was doing the same, though the curses of responsibility were directed inward. She had entered this marriage knowing of Darcy's disposition—she could not fault him for being the proud man he had always been, nor could she continue on reacting to him in this way.

Through the window she saw rows of wheat, miles and miles of golden staffs that bent and swayed in the spring wind. The sight was unfamiliar to her, and she realized that she had passed the boundaries of her familiar environs long ago. This was not how she wanted to begin her new life—to let the milestones and minutes slip by unnoticed. She was done berating herself, and him.

"Fitzwilliam, please allow me to apologize," Elizabeth said, turning toward Darcy. "I was more affected by leaving my family than I had anticipated and you were only trying to comfort me."

Darcy stared at her for a moment, and then quietly replied, "William. I usually only ever go by William, although Georgiana's the only one who has called me that for many years. I hear Fitzwilliam and I look for my cousin."

"Oh." Elizabeth smiled a little sheepishly. "I hadn't realized, but I suppose I should have, of course."

"Not at all…" Darcy paused. "And thank you for your apology, but it was mine to offer. The greater portion of culpability rests with me."

"Let us call it on balance for the both of us."

As a token of her contrition, Elizabeth gently laid her hand on Darcy's arm. Little did she realize the effect that his small gesture would have on her husband, and when she began to remove her touch from him, he grabbed her hand and held it there.

"Is there balance between us Elizabeth?" he asked, his dark eye searching her face. "I must confess that I feel the scales are not entirely level on some things."

Confused, and startled by the force of his grip, she knew not how to respond, and only stuttered out a hasty, "I have not the pleasure of understanding you," before ripping her hand back into her lap. She flattened her skirts, ignoring his cool stillness, and went on: "Are you referring, once more, to the inequality of my family's station in comparison to yours? Because you have been overly eloquent on their lowliness and faults, and made me almost eager to defend things which I would have formerly blushed at or been bothered by."

"I am not talking about your family, but it is good to know that feudal loyalty lurks in your breast, Mrs. Darcy, even if other things do not."

Now more perplexed than ever, she cried, "Please, speak plainly. What is to be gained by your riddles?"

Darcy laughed mirthlessly then, and shook his head at her. "Yes, indeed, let us speak plainly. Tell me Elizabeth, when I reached for you minutes ago, why did you recoil away as if I had seared you with an iron?"

"I did nothing of the kind," she hotly refuted. "I admit I was surprised by your nearness—and consumed, temporarily, by the greatness of the moment of leaving Longbourn."

"Don't you think you should have been consumed by something infinitely more divine on this of all days? Why the sudden attachment to your home? I never thought you wanted to always be near it, or was I mistaken?"

"How can you even ask me that? If you were made to leave Pemberley, even for the best of reasons, would you not mourn? And although Longbourn is not Pemberley, and my family is far from perfect, it is my home and they are my blood."

Darcy leaned towards her and demanded, "And what am I to you?"

She looked at him, her chest rocking and her mind reeling, completely at a loss from the volatility of his temper and the conversation. Dazedly she wondered if this was how he always behaved behind closed doors and amongst family. Marriage could alter people, she had heard. Marriage did strip bare the public self and expose the private person, she knew. It frightened her to think that this might be the unpredictable reality of her life.

Darcy's face was but mere inches from her own. His breath flashed across her skin and his eyes bore into hers. She knew he waited for a reply. And breathlessly, she gave him one.

"You are my husband," she simply said. "What more do you want to be?"

Some of the fervor blew out of Darcy's fierce expression. Slowly he placed both his hands on her cheeks and turned her face upwards. She tried not to withdraw or glance away.

"If you have to ask that, Elizabeth," he whispered. "I fear I cannot answer it myself."

Without another breath, he drew her into a kiss. They had not shared a kiss like this since the day Darcy had pressed his lips to hers at the parsonage gates, and yet, even that lapse in reserve at the offset of their engagement had left her wholly unprepared for this. For the first time, Darcy kissed her—without any of the constraints of propriety or decorum, and instinctively, she leaned into his unrestrained embrace. His hands moved from her face to her back, and she felt the heat of them through her dress. His mouth was warm and firm over her own. Unknowingly she clung to him, her fingers digging into his arms and her body shivering against his chest. It was so thrilling and unexpected, so fine and honest. She reveled in the sensual novelty of it, in the amazing naturalness of his embrace.

She was unaware of anything else for what could have been minutes or hours. Her modesty forgotten in the inviting inferno of his hold, and her worries swept up by his caress. She might have abandoned herself completely, astonishingly, but at that fragile moment of release, Darcy suddenly pulled away.

In a ragged voice, he spoke, only not to her: "Thank you John, I will assist Mrs. Darcy down."

Flustered, Elizabeth spun around, and saw a footman holding the door open. Oblivious to all but Darcy's kiss, she had not sensed the carriage stop, the fresh spring air enter the cabin, or heard the servant's gasp of surprise. And to her further mortification, beyond the footman, stood many other members of the Darcy staff, wearing a wide range of expressions, from the abashed to the amused to the astonished. Her vision pitched into a red hue, as she blushed from brow to heel. Darcy took her hand, helped her descend the carriage, and led her silently by the servants. Elizabeth could not meet any one's eye as she walked up the steps and approached the door, especially not her husband's, who before crossing the threshold, breathed into her ear, "Welcome to Darcy Manor, Elizabeth."

~0~

Before his engagement, Darcy had always thought deception was the most destructive thing to happiness. Lies caused heartache and headaches, and more than a few broken homes. Honesty protected a man from the machinations of wrongdoers, and even his own potential vain imaginations. Now he thought differently. Hope was a far more fatal thing. It preserved the belief of happiness even in the face of staggering, contrary proof. It lifted the hands and strengthened the knees just enough to push forward, when the most clear and best choice was to buckle down and surrender to fate.

It was in the moment when Elizabeth had vowed herself to his care and keep, and her eyes had shone with nothing, nothing but a lifeless glow, that the dread he had been struggling to suppress surged with a sudden ferocity into his consciousness. Something was suffocating the liveliness of Elizabeth's spirits. All throughout the remainder of the ceremony and wedding luncheon, he had felt it. His mind tossing and turning as his lips had smiled and his body had remained rigidly taut. He had wondered what it could possibly be that had drained his vivacious wife of her vigor.

Enlightenment had crept over him as the sun had crept by in the sky. Her reaction to his proposal, her alarm at his attentions during their engagement, and worse, so much worse, her constant and growing withdrawal since his letter had appeared to him in sharp colors and lines. The cloud of love had no longer obscured his keen eye. Her true feelings had been masked for a time during these hectic few weeks of their engagement; so many distractions for a couple deciding to spend their lives together. So many novelties for a woman such as her to stay entertained as she had laughed with her sisters and planned for her trousseau. Her natural high spiritedness must claim a few spars of enjoyment even during a difficult time.

He had pieced all of his observations together with the sun warming his shoulder and glaring menacingly onto his lonely side of the carriage. It had been her quick rebuff of his initial attempt to hold and comfort her that had torn away the last blinder from his eye. Sitting in the carriage he had been certain of it, certain of the truth he had always known, really, but had been too blind or prideful or vain to believe. The thing taking away Elizabeth from him was nothing more or less than him. In the silence of the ride he had at last concluded that_ he _must be the reason for the change in his wife. Darcy had always been clever, and his razor intelligence had finally found a way to convince his blind, deaf heart of the sad truth that Elizabeth did not love him.

And then in that instant of scorching understanding, she had ruined it all. She had apologized first, tying his tongue and confounding his meaning, and after he had clumsily sought to wrest answers from her still, and had as a final attempt kissed her to force her to show the lack of feeling that she would not confess to—she had ruined it again; ruined it in the most beautiful way possible.

She had not shrunk back at his embrace, or averted her face at his nearness. She had kissed him in return and her light, maidenly touch had ignited a dormant passion in him. Her lips had felt so soft and her breath had tasted so sweet on his tongue. The warm quiver of her body against his had matched the fire of his desire, the warm tendrils licking his insides as her warm fingers had pressed into his arm. His kiss had been borne of this warmth. A flame finally allowed to burn free. Only by chance had he, in his haze of longing, glimpsed from the corner of his eye the shadow of his townhouse and the approach of his servant.

The few hours since their arrival to Darcy Manor had passed in a blur. Elizabeth had gradually grown brave enough to raise her head again, her flush never entirely fading, and had greeted all the staff who had come to welcome the new mistress to her home. Darcy and Mrs. Smalls had shown her every room, and she had voiced her delight, ooing and awing with measured grace. Their meal had come and gone as a forgettable aside, and now Darcy stood outside her bedroom door, undecided.

Her tender response to his kiss had plagued him with hope. Could he resist the allure of her willing body, in order to sound out the beating of her heart and the truth of her thoughts? He didn't know if he wanted to, and he didn't know if he should even try.

Adjusting his robe, he knocked on her door. She called for him to enter and his hand shook slightly as he turned the knob. There she stood, fidgeting with the lace on her wrapper, her dark hair spiraling across her shoulders, her cheeks flushed with pink, and her eyes dancing in the soft candlelight. She smiled nervously at him, her lashes fluttering downward, and he knew—he wouldn't say anything tonight. He couldn't. No man, not even Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, was that proud.

_Note: I thought in the last chapter it had been clear that Elizabeth's viewpoint on Darcy is changing. Her last thoughts are quite hopeful, and determined. She did believe him, after they spoke, about Wickham. In canon, she does not automatically read his letter as gospel. It takes her several days, actually, to feel at peace about it, and even after that she decides that she never wants to see Wickham or Darcy again. In spite of spending more time with Darcy these last few weeks in my story, he is not the changed man from the novel when they pass more time together later on in the year at Pemberley, which does not give her much opportunity to see him at his best. He is cold and snobbish, and he was always at his worst around Elizabeth's mother, before his change of attitude. So, in some ways, I think she would cling more to her family in these circumstances because Darcy would be measurably that much less tolerant of them. _

_Thank you so much for the reviews. I have been taking notes of what and where I should make things more apparent. And if I need to add or delete some passages for that clarification. Cheers! Next chapter is going to be…interesting. I have to find a title from this era that is essentially the same as "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?"_

_And finally, don't give up hope. For those of you who read this story in its earlier version, the end is the same and very different. And the angsty side is coming to a definite pause. _


	17. Chapter 17

_**Chapter 17: Les Précieuses ridicule**_

If Elizabeth's understanding of marriage had been derived solely from the interactions of her parents, or the embarrassing and vague allusions of her mother and her Aunt Phillips, she would have had no idea what the marriage state truly entailed. She had seen enough of the world outside of Longbourn, though, and learned enough beyond the vulgarity of her aunt and mother to construct a relatively accurate portrait. Still, even with her enlarged understanding, owing greatly to her Gardiner relations, she had been totally unprepared for her husband's expectations and habits. Darcy the acquaintance, the friend, or even the betrothed, had done little to inform Elizabeth about who Darcy the husband would be. One of her most fundamental truths about his disposition, which had not altered during her closer acquaintance with him during their engagement, had been her belief in his disgruntled temperament. After marriage, she soon had to relinquish that theory. While Darcy was often reserved, he was not overly irritated by things. He smiled a good deal more than she had ever presumed, was quick with a joke, and genuinely seemed to enjoy laughing. To her astonishment, within but a couple days of their marriage, he had become a charming, frank companion during the day and a passionate, mysterious one during the night.

Yet, and with him she was discovering there must ever be a yet, there were times when he would suddenly grow quiet, almost to the point of chariness, and without any explanation, remove himself from her presence; or at other times, when he thought she would not notice, watch her with the same intense scrutiny which had marked those first months of his admiration for her. Once, on the fourth day of their honeymoon, she asked him what he was thinking when he stared at her in that way. He started slightly, opening his mouth as if to honestly reply, and then hesitated, and merely shrugged. She tried to interpret the meaning of these things, the still moments and the rapid, passionate minutes of his embrace, but after her experience with both Wickham and Darcy, she found it difficult to come to any firm opinion about the man who was almost always at her side.

The first week of their marriage passed in this intricate pattern of open kisses and unspoken words, of curious laughs and long pauses of uncomfortable silence, of Elizabeth falling into Darcy's arms and her understanding of him falling just beyond her grasp. She wished he would just say what was bothering him, for she knew he must be bothered about something, as he covertly studied her from lowered brows.

Elizabeth sat in her new favorite room, a tiny, unsuspecting parlor tucked in the back of Darcy Manor, that Darcy had told her, wearing a strange, melancholy smile, had been his mother's preferred place to write her letters, when she glanced up from reading and found him watching her again from the opposite chair, almost waiting for her to do something, that fleeting shadow of condemnation in his eye. It was the evening of their one-week anniversary, a date that neither had remarked on, but for which both had remembered. And with the crackle of the fire and growing familiarity of the scene bolstering her spirits and provoking her curiosity, she wanted to know the reason for his mercurial gazing. Smiling feebly at him, she asked if he had something to discuss with her, unconsciously closing her book.

The suspicion faded from his eyes and closing his own book, which lay open unread on his lap, he answered her in the negative.

"Oh," she said archly. "I only thought you must since you are looking at me in that way again, but perhaps you were only lost in contemplation and I happened to be in your line of sight. It is so difficult to decipher between a loss of awareness and an acuteness of it."

"To be sure."

She waited for more, and after a moment, Darcy spoke, his tone careless: "Your question does bring to mind something that I have been meaning to ask you about all day."

"Only all day?"

He deftly ignored her question. "I received an invitation from my cousin Phillip and Lady Mariah to dine with them tomorrow evening. She would very much like to meet you before we leave for Pemberley, and it is unlikely she will be able to leave her home for some time."

Elizabeth was surprised by his causal aside, but intrigued enough to drop her pursuit of unraveling his thoughts. Tapping her fingers on her book, struggling to recall what Phillip had looked like, she asked, "Does Lady Mariah have a sickly constitution?"

"No, that distinction rests with Anne only. The reason for her confinement is quite the opposite. She's as robust as can be, the picture of fertility and futurity."

A subtle shift warmed Darcy's banal expression and Elizabeth blushed. "Ah," she said. "And is this their first child?"

"No, they have two girls. Naturally, they are hopeful that their third child will be the heir. Mariah is rather certain of it, even more certain of it than the two times prior."

"Mothers are always certain about such things. I believe my mother made the midwife check three separate times to confirm that Lydia was a girl, and not a boy."

"Fortunately for my cousin and his wife the repercussions will not be so great should they never produce a male. There is no entailment attached to the title or property of Matlock."

Elizabeth sensed some bitterness in his words, but she swept away her misgiving with a forced laugh. "That is fortunate indeed."

"So you wish to attend? Georgiana is staying there, of course, as well as Fitzwilliam. It might be a pleasant way to pass our last evening in London."

Elizabeth nodded her assent, finding it more difficult to ignore the odd mixture of sweet and sour in his voice that time.

~0~

The heir of the Earl of Matlock was an oddity, Elizabeth determined before the soup was cleared away. If he had been less educated, and less endowed with the wealth of the world, she doubted anyone would defer to his judgment unless to engage in a practical joke. With amused alarm, she discovered he held a seat in the House of Lords and held, within that house, a great deal of prestige and persuasion. This was the sort of man guiding the country—which made the prosperity of her homeland appear all the more a blessing of Providence than the will of man.

Throughout the meal Sir Phillip spoke of everything that anybody should do about anything. He reminded Elizabeth of Lady Catherine, except he was without guile and wholly, almost endearingly, concerned about the most ridiculous of things. He talked about a covey of quail he had built a shelter for because he was certain they would catch a cold, about the distressing way manufacturers treated their hunting dogs, and most incredibly, about the dangers of dressing with only one scarf in the winter, which danger was second only to the horror that might occur if a person chose to wear one, _ugly _scarf.

"If a man or woman can afford but a single scarf, let that scarf be elegant. I see no reason why the poor should die with a monstrous rag tied about their neck."

"No, indeed, not," mumbled Colonel Fitzwilliam, who sat beside her. "What must they be thinking—to die without money or fashion?"

Elizabeth stifled a laugh, and caught the colonel's eye. He smiled warmly, but weakly at her, and immediately looked back at his brother. She failed to completely disguise her confusion or injury. She did not know what she had done to the colonel, but he had hardly spoken three words together to her the entire meal. Wanting to seem unaffected, she likewise spun her gaze back toward Sir Phillip—oblivious to the slow-burning distrust in her husband's expression. Her delight in the meal had been disrupted, not destroyed. Sir Phillip droned on, his very pretty and very silly wife adding her absolute and unwavering support to whatever her husband advocated. Dearly Elizabeth wished her father were here to enjoy this with her. Mr. Bennet would have championed him as the most delightful conversationalist, possibly above or on the level with Mr. Collins.

The party was just starting on the dessert when a late and unexpected guest upended the inane prattle; and although Elizabeth did not know it yet, upended the frail accord she had worked so hard to achieve with her new husband.

The butler announced the name, the footmen scuffled around to set another dinner plate, and Sir Philip and Lady Mariah shot furtive looks of shock to all in attendance at their table, apologizing for and welcoming the new arrival in breathy formalities. Baffled, Elizabeth glanced between the stone-faced Darcy and the slack-jawed Fitzwilliam. This Lady Henley must be a woman of great clout and influence. Certainly she was a woman of great beauty.

Her cloak was removed, revealing a cascading décolletage of silk magenta and beaded netting along her shoulders. She refused all the food being offered to her, and in a husky voice apologized for the lateness of the hour. Introductions were quickly done, and even more quickly did Lady Henley offer her congratulations to Elizabeth and Darcy, her sharp eye lingering on the bride. When she sat, directly across from the colonel and beside Darcy, Sir Phillip made a gallant effort to recommence conversation, but even his boisterous blathering bubbled into nothing after only a minute or two, and the clinks of fork tines soon filled up the cavernous dining room.

Now that Sir Phillip was quiet, Elizabeth attempted to chat with Georgiana, who sat on her other side and had been as sweet and pleasant as she had been in Hertfordshire, although, if possible, even more timid. As a way to draw her from her shell, Elizabeth began asking Georgiana which paths at Pemberley were her most beloved, and which ones would be the best to get lost on for a day. Reminiscences of home sparked light and life into the young girl's face, her cheeks rosy and her voice excited.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Darcy, but I could not help but hear your conversation with that darling creature beside you," Lady Henley silkily interrupted. "Am I to understand you married your husband before beholding his family estate?"

Elizabeth turned to the countess, noticing how stiff the room had suddenly become, how the silverware dangled from half-raised hands and no one apart from her breathed or moved.

"You are correct in your assumption," she answered. "I have not been to Pemberley."

"You must love your husband a good deal to marry him before he showed you the expanse of what he had to offer."

"Perhaps it is a good deal more likely that I am prone to pay too much heed to wagging tongues. For if my motives for marriage were not pure, but purely mercenary, I hope I could claim to trust in the virtue of gossip, if nothing else."

"Ah! You are a wit, Mrs. Darcy."

"But I pray not a cynic. I did not need to see Pemberley to know that Mr. Darcy had much to offer, both in the seen and unseen."

"Your answers are _délicieuses_, Mrs. Darcy. They have all the flavor of meat, without any of the actual nourishment from it. I could chew on them for hours and never be satisfied."

"Thank you," Elizabeth murmured.

"Thank me? I'm not positive you mean what you say."

Elizabeth had no reply for that, and returned to her dessert. The others followed suit and shortly after, the party rose from the table, with Sir Phillip announcing that since it was essentially a small family gathering, they would do away with the general practice of separating the gentlemen from the ladies. Elizabeth saw an expression of gratitude steal over Mariah's cherry face, and supposed the break from tradition had been entirely for her benefit: so that she did not have to entertain Lady Henley on her own.

Elizabeth did not wonder at Lady Mariah's relief. It was not difficult to see that the countess was aware of the charm she had over people, and unscrupulous about using it to her advantage. There was a richness to her tone and complexion that somehow defied the grandeur of her surroundings, paling the fair but buxom Lady Mariah and contrasting darkly with the light naturalness of Elizabeth's beauty. Clearly most women were cowed in the face of such profound feminine confidence, and most men were allured by it. But Elizabeth was not one of those women. The only thing she had experienced while entrapped in Lady Henley's graces had been a clap of understanding about the harried reaction to her entrance. However frequently this noble lady may flout the norms of polite society, she would not be waylaid from being accepted into it.

Darcy approached Elizabeth, and she took his proffered arm. As they walked down the hallway and into the large drawing room, Darcy softly muttered his surprise at Lady Henley's appearance, and his chagrin.

"She is not to be trusted, Elizabeth. Be on guard. She is known for making fools out of the wisest of men, and women."

"You doubt me?"

"No, I doubt her."

He swung Elizabeth into the warm, bright room and ushered her toward a lonely sofa near the grate. She sat and Darcy remained standing, resting his hand on the rosewood frame and dancing his fingers across the glossy finish. When Georgiana entered she smiled and moved as if to come to Elizabeth and Darcy, but Lady Mariah intercepted her by patting the cushion next to her and begging her lovely cousin to comfort her with her dulcet conversation. Sir Phillip claimed the kind ear and dozing attention of Mrs. Annesley, the two reclining near to the piano. That left the roaming Lady Henley, who had attached Colonel Fitzwilliam to her side, to meander her way toward the newlyweds.

Elizabeth watched them slowly come, flicking her gaze up at the haughty veneer of her husband and back toward the colonel and his companion. Fitzwilliam still would not meet her eye, his avoidance now beyond the excuse of accidental disregard. She could not say why it irritated her so that he was acting so aloofly, but she could no longer deny that she felt the slight of his neglect. Surely, a married woman did not suddenly become invisible, or incapable of discussion.

As the two came to a halt before the Darcys, the countess whispered something to the colonel, and he immediately and finally looked at Elizabeth fully in the face. For whatever reason that single regard made her heart race with trepidation. A blush speckled her skin.

"I was just telling your cousin, Mr. Darcy, that I cannot believe we have never met before this evening," cooed the countess. "How shameful that you never came to any of my soirées whilst still a bachelor."

"It is only shameful because I never went. If I had, you would know for certain that you would have preferred me never to have come. I am not a man for large parties. I am not a man like my cousin."

"Oh, but I believe you are very much like Colonel Fitzwilliam, infinitely more so than you might think!" She playfully stroked the colonel's arm and cut her eye toward Elizabeth. "Wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Darcy?"

"That depends on what you mean. They do not look alike."

'True," the countess mused, "though you cannot deny there is something pleasing about the way they each hold their mouths."

Elizabeth merely smiled; she did not have to observe Darcy to know he must be frowning. Fitzwilliam stepped in, skillfully disentangling the countess' grip from his arm, and offering her to rest. "Please, you must be fatigued," he urged when she seemed disinclined to sit.

"Very well," she shrugged. "I am wearier than I would care to admit, I suppose. I almost didn't come tonight, but in the end, I simply couldn't say no to your thoughtful invitation, colonel."

Darcy tensed beside Elizabeth, his hand firm against the sofa's frame. "Excuse me, Lady Henley, I had thought it serendipity that had fortuned us with your presence here, but am I to understand you were issued a particular invitation?"

"Of course, Mr. Darcy, I would never have presumed otherwise. Hen—that is to say, Colonel Fitzwilliam, dined with me only last night and, oh well, the way he spoke about you and your lovely bride," she winked slyly at Elizabeth, "he must have seen how intrigued I was. I assure you none of the praise was unwarranted."

"I am sure," Darcy said blandly. "The colonel is nothing if not a mouthpiece for truth."

"Now that is almost precisely what he said about you, Mr. Darcy." She flattened her palm lightly against Elizabeth's arm and leaned in, "See, Mrs. Darcy the two gentlemen are marvelously similar. On the surface they may not appear the same, but underneath they're identical—their courage, their minds, their hearts. I'm astonished you of all people haven't noticed how very alike they truly are. You are a wit, but you must be a woman first. And we women posses a sense about what lies beneath-what madness lurks, what jealousy stirs, what forbidden love goes unspoken."

There followed after her silken pronouncement an exchange so restrained that none but the four near the hearth knew it had passed; one lady and gentleman turned white, the other lady and gentleman bled red. Lady Henley reclined back, taking in a luxuriant breath and placidly fanning herself, and said, "Colonel, I think the fire has grown too warm for my taste, will you escort me over to that window?"

The two were gone from the sofa without another word, and hardly a glance, and not long after that Darcy and Elizabeth were gone from the house. They drove through London streets, the horses' hooves pounding in the same frenetic beat of Elizabeth's heart and the drum of her confused thoughts. Before she could sort out all the implications of Lady Henley's insinuations, before she could wonder again what her husband was thinking as he stared at her with heavy, dark eyes, he spoke. And for the first time ever since meeting him at the Meryton assembly hall so long ago, she knew what it was to see Mr. Darcy angry.

_Note: So this chapter took much longer than I had planned, and was harder to work out. I will probably have to tweak it some, but the next chapter will still be up Saturday, and it is their 'discussion.' Thanks for the reviews. _

_Cheers!_


	18. Chapter 18

_**Chapter 18: Paradise Lost**_

The dinner party had been torturous; an abridged, one-act play that had compacted all of Darcy's uncertainty and anger, bliss and tragedy from this last week into a single evening.

Darcy had not wanted to go out this evening, especially to dine with Phillip and Mariah and endure their idiosyncratic sympathies, but Elizabeth had seemed genuinely delighted by the prospect of spending some time with other company. Whatever she thought of him, however she felt, he could not deny her such a simple pleasure. Now, he wished that he had.

Tonight, as he had admired her beauty and wit, watching fondly while she had reached out to befriend his sister, his heart had swelled with joy, and then, that elation had sped out of him, as his heart had been punctured again and again when he had witnessed the way his wife had avoided his cousin's gaze, and how his cousin had avoided hers. Even before Lady Henley's damning admission, the absence of interaction between Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth had provoked Darcy's suspicion. During the main course, he had thrown out his laughable assumption that Fitzwilliam's affections were for Anne. It had been the quick glances and suppressed laughter between his wife and his cousin, the polite words that should have been spoken but never were, that had made the countess' confession a mere confirmation. The leaching of color on Fitzwilliam's face, that pallor of shame and his sidelong glance at Darcy, had been the finishing, unnecessary dart to the chest.

Since accepting his belief that Elizabeth did not love him, he had experienced the depths of what the human heart could feel, and since lying next to her in their marriage bed, he had known the heights. That first morning after their wedding, as he had held her sleeping form flush against his chest, he had known he loved her, would always love her and he had wished he could make her love him. Do something to help her see him as a man worthy to be loved, but until he knew the reasons in her heart and mind, he would not be able to change anything. But that morning, the pinkish sun had bled through his drapes and he had decided to remain silent and behave as if nothing was amiss. The time would arrive for him to speak openly with her.

His shaky calm this last week had never lasted for very long, certainly for never more than a few hours. A man unused to introspection, the daily perusal of his feelings would leave him agitated and unnerved. For seven days, he had hardly slept. He doubted he would sleep tonight.

Elizabeth sat across from him in the carriage and Darcy knew the moment had come. He could no longer hold back his tongue. The fire was in his belly and it would soon rise up into his throat.

Still for a few minutes, he stared at his wife, stalling his purpose. She had already started to let down her hair, plucking the pins from her bun and massaging her scalp—something he had found she did as soon as she possibly could. She hated finery and artifice in regards to her appearance, a trait that now perplexed Darcy since she must not hate it in connection with her life choices. He noticed her fingers trembling tonight. Her movements were less sure and less elegant. She removed a final pin and her long tresses curled around her neck and plunged into her décolletage. It distracted him. It determined him. Her bright eyes glinted darkly and he leaned forward.

"Are you determined that I should speak first, Elizabeth? Is that what you want?"

"I want you to speak, William, if you have something to say."

"Your frankness was always something I admired in you, my dear, but I am beginning to admire your ability to deceive so much more."

Elizabeth's hand fell away from her hair and her mouth fell open. He heard her hairpins cascade onto the carriage floor. He resisted the urge to bend down and pick them up, and kneel before her as a peasant begging before a queen.

"What will you think of my vanity?" he asked instead, his voice rich with anger. "I thought you, my wife, loved me when I proposed. Let us no longer pretend that is the case, though. Lady Henley has spared us from that sham, at least."

Elizabeth blushed, the rouge of her mortification so great he could perceive it in this low light. And stubbornly, Darcy went on: "For a week now, I have been going over in my head what I could possibly say to you, but how does a man approach his new bride and ask if she married him for his property alone? I would rather not think you so conniving. I know you must have some standards, else you would have said yes to Mr. Collins—Lady Catherine may not have many endearing qualities but her wagging tongue makes her a veritable well of gossip. Although I cannot claim to receive much comfort that you chose me over Mr. Collins. So will you satisfy me on this one, insignificant point, and tell me why you accepted my hand? But it is after all of little importance. You will be the Mistress of Pemberley regardless."

Elizabeth could not speak, or would not speak. Her face was as still as stone. This silence, the silence of so many days, her reticence of so many weeks, was too much for him. All he had heard from her since the day he had proposed was silence. And he almost yelled, "Am I to expect any reply?"

This jolted Elizabeth, and with real earnestness, she plead, "What would you have me say?"

"Anything, Elizabeth!"

"You want me to confirm your fears? You want me to tell you that I do not love you? That I harbored no affection for you when I said yes? That I wanted to take back my acceptance of your hand almost immediately after it was given? That in the first moment's of our acquaintance I felt a decided dislike for you—for your arrogance, your pride, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others? A dislike I have struggled to completely overcome. And I have struggled. I have fought with myself, so I would not fight with you."

Darcy had not anticipated this reply, and he did not know how to respond. He was not done with his accusations, now that he had begun. He would not be distracted, and he pushed forward with reckless obstinacy.

"My pride? You impute my actions with pride, arrogance, and disdain? All the while you marry me without affection! To flatter your vanity! To secure yourself an exalted position, one in which your own connections, so beneath my own, dear wife of my bosom, would never be able to ascend to on their own! Or worse still, did you have other motivations for accepting my hand, aside from the pecuniary advantages of pin-money and jewels? Were there more sentimental, and more serious, matters of duplicity in your heart?"

"Let us be clear, sir. I did not marry you to raise myself. I will confess that you offered security and I took it. In a moment of weakness and worry about my future and that of my sisters' well-being, I accepted your hand. In a moment when I hoped you were a better man. But, as to other motivations, I know nothing of what you speak. Be frank, yourself, if you wish for such openness from me."

"I do not think even your secrecy can miscomprehend my allusion—not after what Lady Henley said. I am talking of your preference for another man being a motivation, so you might remain close to him since he would not sink to marry you as I did."

The horror in her face was acute, a stinging expression of shock. Of all the accusations that Darcy had levied at her, he could instantly see that this one had hurt the most. But venomous words cannot be siphoned away as easily as the poison of serpents. Her voice was broken with fury and injury when she asked: "You believe me unfaithful to you? You believe Lady Henley omniscient in matters of the heart?"

"I believe you looked guilty of some form of infidelity, whether of the mind or of body it is the same to me. Your face was as white as the driven snow after Lady Henley's hints."

"And Lady Henley's was as red as fire. She looked as if she had climbed a mountain and was rejoicing from its peak."

"Her reaction after the fact concerns me much less than yours does."

"I was astonished—that is all."

"I find that difficult to accept."

"I don't care if you do. It is the truth. I am not afraid of it. Clearly, I am already a fallen woman in your eyes. Admit it. Do not be reserved now."

"You are absolutely right. We are past the point of reservation. I saw you laughing discreetly with him tonight. I saw your covert looks of shared longing throughout the supper—I did not need Lady Henley to spell it out so plainly, although she did do me the favor of dispelling any doubt. Please do me the honor of answering this simple question: Do you not prefer Fitzwilliam, my own cousin, to me?"

Elizabeth had as yet to move from her perch, but this most direct and bitter allegation was too much for her. She crossed abruptly to the other side, and wrapping her cloak around her, sat inches from her very imposing husband. "I will admit I was hurt by your cousin's cold manners this evening—and I have been confused at times about what my feelings were for him, but this cruel attack by you has at last given me understanding. So I thank you for that. While, I admire your cousin for his goodness of character and humility, I do not love him. He is kind and respectful to others, not excepting their rank or station. Did you see him at our wedding? He did not cringe at my father or shrug his shoulders at my mother—"

"Did I see him at our wedding? I saw only you at our wedding—you and your disappointment. But I am honored to know that my cousin's failings are not as great as mine in your eyes. I am glad to know your pleased opinion of him."

"I would rather be pleased by my opinion of you! Do you not think that I have tried to change my mind about you? About the man that I will be spending the rest of my days with? But every time I approach it, I cannot do it. Your pride, your nearly constant belief in your superiority, your selfishness with those whom you consider your lessers, halts my steps and curbs my desire. And I am left bereft of both respect and love for you!"

"In short, you do prefer Fitzwilliam to me."

The light of the moon caught her expression, the metallic shimmer on her face matching the metallic edge in her voice. "You are mistaken, William, if you think that I prefer him or any one man to you. I do not prefer_ one_ man to you, I prefer _any_ man to you."

She was so close to him, Darcy wanted to pull her into a warm embrace, to forget this awful scene. He could feel the heat of her breath, so near she was to him. Yet, her words were ripping through his mind and heart, with truth and punishment. He hovered above her quaking form, and hesitated. She was quaking from anger, anger at him. His own anger abetted. In the face of such rejection and dejection, even his wrath could not withstand it.

"We have said enough for tonight, Elizabeth," he quietly said. "Perhaps you were wise when you told me that some things are better left unsaid. But, it has only been one week, and I can barely endure the lie that we are living—I was not making light of my abhorrence of deceit. I hate every form of it, most especially in the form of my marriage."

Elizabeth suddenly became still, apart from her darting eyes. Frantically her gaze sought out answers on his face, and he vaguely wondered what she was finding—a strange detachment having distilled upon him. When at last she finished looking, she turned her head down and whispered, "I am sorry to have caused you pain. I am sorry to have caused you doubt. But most of all, I am sorry to have caused you regret."

The carriage came to a halt then, but before the wind and world rushed in with the opening door, Darcy took Elizabeth by the chin, and lifting her face to his, said, "It is not I who regret my choice in a spouse, Elizabeth."

The door opened, Darcy stepped out, and spinning around, extended his hand to his wife. "Come," he commanded. "The night has grown cold."

Uncertainly, she took his hand and descended the carriage. He escorted her silently into the house and up the stairs to her chambers. Kissing her lightly on the cheek, he told her she could have her privacy tonight.

As he walked away, he sensed her watching him. He did not hear her door open and shut, or the rustle of her skirts as she swished through the threshold. But he would not turn around, not even for her.

He had thought believing she loved Fitzwilliam had been a heavy blow. The truth was worse, so much worse. If she had truly preferred his cousin, what could he have honestly said against the man? He loved Fitzwilliam as his own brother. He was kind, gentle, and lively. Now that it didn't matter, now that it wasn't true, it seemed only natural to Darcy that Elizabeth could have fallen in love with the colonel; as natural as Fitzwilliam falling in love with Elizabeth, or he, himself, falling for her. Darcy believed too soundly in the honor of his cousin, and even in Elizabeth's virtue, to believe they would have ever acted on their attraction. That too was so much easier to think, and to believe now that it couldn't be proven.

But what could Darcy actually do now? He didn't have another man competing for her affection, or tempting her allegiance. He had himself, and her deep dislike of him, fighting against his happiness.

He entered his chambers. The candelabras were lit and the fire was ablaze. But his room felt colder and lonelier than it ever had before. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes blind, he threw himself into a chair. In that instant, he wanted to be blind, blind to Elizabeth's inattention and lack of animation and affection. But he could not be. In such cases, one cannot revert to the day when night has fallen. There is no escape from night. There is only patience until the dawn.

"Oh Elizabeth!" he sighed. "Oh, my dearest Elizabeth."

His hands still shielded his eyes and his lids were still closed, when from the chilled emptiness of his room, a warm touch landed softly on his skin.

_Note: So sad. Yes, I know, but it was necessary. Storm before the rainbow and all that. I hope some questions were answered. Like I have written, I plan on tweaking some things in the beginning. I never thought of Elizabeth as unlikable, certainly. And not mercenary either. She was romantic and impulsive, romantic with a capital R…which ironically led her to be practical. I will clarify that earlier. I think Darcy would want to direct all his anger at Fitzwilliam, but unfortunately, Elizabeth was right there, and he was already nursing a massive wound from her after discovering she didn't love him. Thanks for all the reviews. And sorry this is later, again. It was such a pretty day where I live...finally! Maybe the sunshine will find itself into my story as well. :)  
_


	19. Chapter 19

_**Chapter 19: To See a World in a Grain of Sand**_

Colonel Fitzwilliam offered to accompany Lady Henley to her barouche, sidestepping his brother and nodding at Mariah and Georgiana. The countess accepted his arm, sliding her long fingers into the crook of his elbow and smiling up at him. Their expressions were pleasant. The distance between their bodies was perfectly proper. No one would suspect anything wrong between them.

They moved out the door and down the stairs in complete quiet. The nocturnal sounds of beast and nature made more noise than they did. When they reached the barouche, politely dismissing the attendant and settling Lady Henley into her seat, their arms broke apart and the refined veneer on one of their faces did also. Fitzwilliam tempered the volume of his voice, but he could no longer temper the resentment.

"Lady Henley, it was very ill-advised of you to come here tonight."

She simpered at him, elegantly impervious to his annoyance. "So the man has a voice and can speak. I was beginning to think a cat had got your tongue for good, Henry."

"Why are you intent on provoking me? Any frank display of emotion is not a sign of affection."

"No, but it is better than the loveless civility with which you have treated me all throughout the evening."

"You are lucky that I did show such restrained courtesy. I nearly commanded you to leave the minute you arrived."

"That would have been the height of rudeness, especially in light of the fact that it was you who first asked me to come."

Fitzwilliam fisted his hands and breathed in deeply. He had never been so infuriated with a woman, nor wished so furiously that she had been a man so that he might bow to his baser instincts and physically accost her. Only, considering her warped sense of pleasure, she probably would delight in his brutality. His nostrils distended in contempt and he unclenched his fingers. Mastery over his fury would be his ally, succumbing to her caprice would be his enemy.

"It is not in my habit to contradict a gentlewoman, but you are stretching the truth into something unrecognizable. I informed you last night why I could not dine with you again. You know as well as I do that telling you that I would be attending a family meal with my cousins and brother was not an invitation for you to come to said meal."

"Perhaps your intent was lost in translation."

"You speak better English than the king."

"That is because he is German."

Fitzwilliam's eyes quivered in irritation, and Lady Henley leaned toward him, her ennui somewhat cracking and her voice thickening with sincerity.

"I came for you tonight. Of course you know this. You are upset now, but you will see that I did you a service. The truth has been set free and so have you."

Undone, Fitzwilliam dragged a shaking hand through his hair and shook his head. "You do not know my cousin, Lady Henley—"

"Genviéve."

"Lady Henley," he repeated and went on, dropping his hand and staring intently at her. "You do not know the tenacity of his indignation, or his penchant for holding grudges."

"He will forgive you. It was clear his wife does not love you. I am sorry to hurt you, but you must have seen her face—there was no joy in her expression, no flutter of happiness."

Fitzwilliam had seen it, had felt the unwilling surge of hope that had been immediately and completely dashed by Elizabeth's shocked expression. He could not contemplate it now, however, if he could ever contemplate it again.

"He will sooner forgive Elizabeth than he will me. Trust that I know my cousin better than you."

"Perhaps," Lady Henley said, lightly resting her hand on his arm. "Or perhaps he will not be so forgiving. You should trust me that I know women better than you do. I would not have said anything tonight if I had thought Mrs. Darcy loved her husband. I only said it because I had to know if she loved you instead. The woman, however, is apparently without love."

"You do not know that."

"I know it as surely as I know that I do not have you."

Fitzwilliam placed his hand over hers and gently removed it from his arm. His anger was spent now, swallowed up in the grief and grievances of the evening. "You will never have me," he sighed, "if you continue to try and ruin me."

"Oh, Henry, I do not want anything but your happiness." She hugged her cloak about her shoulders and he thought he perceived a gleam of sorrow in her dark eyes. "I have not ruined you. I will not."

"You are doing your best to try."

"I want your heart, but you will not give it to me."

"I cannot. The truth may be set free, but that does not mean I am free."

"Your heart is not free, but your body is."

"No."

The countess looked down into her lap and almost whispered, "You will not give me your heart. You will not give me your body. I want your company, if you will offer me nothing else." She raised her head, a single tear trickling down her cheek. "Come dine with me again."

Fitzwilliam glanced around. The street was empty and the servants were standing a good few feet away. He leaned into the cabin and wiped the tear from her face. He never knew what to do with Lady Henley—he could not trust her, he could not leave her alone, and he could not be what she wanted him to be for her.

"Madam, I cannot dine alone with you again. Even if I were to remain in London, I do not think it would be prudent of me to come to you again, not for some time. But, regardless, tomorrow I am going to—"

"Weymouth." She clasped her hand over his and pressed his palm into her cheek. He nodded, and slipped his hand away from her face. She did not protest or grasp at his fingers. That was not her way.

"Miss Darcy told me," she said, relaxing into the shadows. "She is a delightful girl, and much too pretty to be that timid."

"She will come round. She is full young to be much in company."

"Perhaps a bit of sea air is what she needs. Perhaps it is what I need to lift my spirits, since you will not." Her white teeth flashed in the dimness. At least she was smiling again. She was resilient if nothing else.

"I cannot stop you from going anywhere you choose, countess, as you have proven tonight, but I would wish for your happiness and my peace that you would not seek to cross paths with me so soon again."

"On verra," she muttered. "Bon soir, colonel."

Fitzwilliam signaled at the driver to come near, and closed the door. He waited for her barouche to pull away before he said quietly to the ground, "Good night, Genviéve."

With slow steps the colonel walked toward his brother's front porch. He hoped Weymouth would be the escape he needed—now more than ever. He needed the sea to rejuvenate his soul as it could reinvigorate the body. He needed a new change of scenery, and a new perspective. What better vantage point than the constant, mighty sea? There was a mistress without eyes, without form, and without expectation or disappointment. There was a mistress in whose bosom he might find home.

~0~

Elizabeth stood before Darcy and blushed, stumbling to articulate her apology. On instinct, she had followed him down the hallway, her steps slowly and hesitantly trailing his, and ever since she had begun her embarrassed, rambling plea for a truce, she had regretted giving in to her whimsy. He had not moved since his hand had fallen away from his brow and his eyes had lifted up to regard her. He had not stood up when he had realized she had entered his room. He had not even spoken her name. She could not read his expression, and almost wished that the anger would return so that she might better understand his thoughts. At least in the terrible carriage ride back to Darcy Manor she had known exactly what he had been thinking—and as caustic as he had acted, she would prefer that to this silent, blank stranger before her now.

"Is that all?" he blandly asked, and she flushed more, realizing that the rapid flow of her thoughts had carried her voice away into a speechless void. But he had at last ended his unnerving quiet, and she knew she must answer.

"I do not know if that is all," she said honestly, biting her lip. "Angry people are not always wise and repentant people are not always eloquent."

"Platitudes, Elizabeth. How apropos."

"I am sincere."

The only reply from him this time was a faint nod of the head; everything about him, from the slackness of his expression to the slump of his shoulders, screamed exhaustion. Elizabeth's own body and mind cried out for rest, and she stepped back. She had not wanted the sun to go down upon their wrath, but she wondered if sleep were better than a forced peace. Perhaps the rising of the sun would do more good than anything else at this point.

"Are you going to retire for the night?"

"I think it is best," she replied.

"It has been a long day."

"Yes," she hesitated. "Do we still leave for Pemberley tomorrow morning?"

"I cannot see that anything has happened to change our plans. I am now more desirous than ever to be at home again. As much as I love and live in Darcy Manor, it is not the same as being at Pemberley. And I assume you are still curious to see the estate."

"Of course, I am." She smiled timidly. "I have heard so much about it for so long. I am quite keen on going there—and as anxious to leave London as you are. I am finding that I share more of my father's distaste for town than I had ever before supposed."

"Then we will depart directly after breakfast."

Elizabeth sensed a dismissal in his even tone, and clutching her hands nervously against her chest, spun around. She had only gone two steps when she felt his hand on her arm. He twirled her back toward him, hoarsely apologizing for having not properly bid her good night, and before she knew what he meant by following her in all this state, he had pulled her onto the tips of her toes and was kissing her.

There was tremble in his arms that had never been there before, and a probing, savage urgency in his kiss. The pressure of his lips was almost bruising. She could barely catch her breath or continue standing, so insistent was his ardor. When she thought she could take no more, he abruptly stopped. His hard breaths cut across her face and he leaned his forehead against her own, sliding his hands up her arms, his fingers massaging her as they rose. He let out a long sigh and drew back, holding onto her shoulders while keeping her at arm's length.

"Thank you for coming to me tonight," he said. "If I cannot have your love, then I will need your respect all the more. We must first try and be friends Elizabeth. That is my one, immutable demand."

Elizabeth's lips yet tingled from his brutal kiss, and she could not help but smile. "If we are to be friends, William, I have one, immutable demand of my own."

He studied her, releasing his grip on her shoulders and crossing his arms. "Very well. I will hear it."

"You cannot go about saying good night to your other friends and kissing them like that."

At the look on his face, she could not help but laugh. Laughing still, she reached up and shyly kissed his cheek, and wished him good night. She walked back down the hall, untying her cloak and swaying with fatigue. "Friends," she thought, rolling the idea over in her mind. "Friends with Mr. Darcy, friends with William." It was an odd notion to become friends with a man after marrying him, after sharing his bed, and after nearly losing everything that she had built with him. But that foundation was made of sand, tonight had proven that. Friendship was a bedrock that could support something more substantial.

Elizabeth entered her bed chamber, feeling lighter and more hopeful than she could remember. Now that the secret of her true opinion of her husband had been divulged, she realized how great a burden it had been to conceal. A certain easiness of temper and clarity of mind had disappeared from her these past weeks; a certain liveliness of spirit had wallowed in despair. But that would be no more. She was leaving London behind, she was leaving doubt behind, and if she were very fortunate, she was leaving sorrow behind as well.

To Pemberley, therefore she would happily go.

_**End Part One**_

_Note: Haha. Sorry about the Bath mix-up. It's one of those instances where I had confounded things in my head, and forgotten to correct it. Worse still because I've been to Bath... _

_Thank you for all the reviews. It is a tricky situation they all find themselves in, but sea level is a good place to start fresh. Cheers. Hey, it's a little early, to make up for it being a little late. Oh, and Georgiana has been staying with Phillip. I'll make that more clear in the previous chapter. _


	20. Chapter 20

_**Chapter 20: Sturm und Drang**_

Darcy had been envisioning this moment for so many months it seemed unreal to him that it had finally arrived. His gaze kept floating between the familiar overhang of trees, the spring boughs heavy with blossoms, and the excited gleam in Elizabeth's eye. She had her neck craned up and her fingers clasping the base of the carriage window, but would periodically glance at him, a small, conscientious smile on her lips.

"Are you certain this is still Pemberley," she teased, after several minutes of hushed anticipation. "I'm beginning to believe the house is just a myth and the land an exaggeration."

The scene was too tender for him to do anything but smile softly in return. So much hinged on this, it seemed. Elizabeth turned back to the window and leaned into the glass. He toyed with his cufflinks and counted the passage of time by the rise and fall of his wife's breathing. They passed over a small bridge. The sound of the creek babbled from below, barely noticeable over the crunch from the wheels. Darcy banged on the carriage roof and called for the driver to stop.

"We'll walk the rest of the way," he said, climbing out of the carriage and holding out his hand. Elizabeth took it without saying anything. There was still awkwardness in their touch, and formality in his behavior. He tipped his head at his driver and the carriage drove off. Darcy moved Elizabeth off the gravel road and onto a thin, dirt path.

"Is this the part where you inform me you are actually the under-gardener, William?"

He knew she was teasing him—again. For the past two days her humor had been restored. It had been a breath of fresh air, a return of daylight, when yesterday morning, after his sleepless, rough night, he had met her in the breakfast nook at Darcy Manor, and she had made some quip about the meal, but he could not tease her back right now.

"This is the part, Mrs. Darcy, where you see my life's work."

He pushed past some overgrown brush, and tugged her through some arching branches, and suddenly, there was Pemberley. His home stood on the opposite hill, the stream wrapping around it and swelling with the floods of spring showers. He could almost see the fish swimming beneath the dark surface and hear the wind as it whistled past the reeds. Soaking in the sight of the place where he always felt most himself, he faced Elizabeth. Her eyes were enchanting in the bright sun. Her expression was still with admiration. She belonged here, had always belonged here.

"Welcome to Pemberley," he said. "Does it please you?"

She drew her warm gaze to him. "Yes," she whispered. "I have never seen a more beautiful place."

In his occasional fancy, this had been the moment when he had imagined folding her into his arms and kissing her. But dreams do not always come true. With a steady hand, he grazed his finger along her cheek and smiled. "I am glad," was all he could say.

~0~

Elizabeth spent her first couple days at Pemberley learning the outlay of the house, both of the functional and permanent kind. She met with all of the staff, pleasantly surprised by the genteel, graciousness of the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, and the general cheerfulness of all of the downstairs. During the daylight hours, she toured the rooms and park with either Mrs. Reynolds or Darcy himself, and during the dusky hours of the evening she asked her husband every question she could think of about his childhood home. He never seemed to tire of her inquiries. She had supposed that his attentiveness would end once they reached his tranquil estate, especially given the strain of their relationship and the constant excuse of good weather and fine sport. She was wrong. If anything, once they were in the relative solitude of Pemberley, Darcy remained by her side even more. Often silent, but never reluctant to speak, he moved alongside her with the growing easiness of her own shadow.

The thing that most struck her about her constant companion was his generosity and humility in connection to Pemberley, and all of his property. When he had first given her a tour of Darcy Manor, he had shared beloved family stories with her about each room, and had still encouraged her to make whatever alterations she should choose. He obviously felt attached to the furnishings, but seemed to care more that she would feel comfortable in her new home than for whatever nostalgia he felt for certain décor. She had told herself that he would not be as open-minded about changes to Pemberley, but had discovered almost upon her arrival on the beautiful, rolling grounds, that she had been totally mistaken. As they had ascended the stairs toward their separate rooms that first evening, Darcy had not hesitated to encourage her to do whatever she liked with the house, including his own bed chambers, if she found she did not like them.

There was nothing to be changed, though. Not one drape or design she did not admire or adore. At Darcy Manor she had already learned to value her husband's fine taste, and that appreciation only intensified as she strolled amidst the furnishings of Pemberley. After only two days, she had grown to love her surroundings, to cherish the simplicity of the architecture, and to harbor an attachment for the understated beauty of the estate. No, it was not the house she wanted to change, and as she better learned the subtle ways of her husband, she wondered if she wanted him to change either. Was she already witnessing a change in him? Or had he always been thus?

Elizabeth was contented with what she saw in Darcy, but she would not have counted herself as comfortable with him. The harmful words of the last week yet echoed too loudly for her to make complete sense of them. She needed to think, to reflect on her own feelings, her new situation, and all the responsibilities of being mistress to such a grand estate entailed. She must give attention to the tenants, the servants, and the parishes—only a handful of whom she had actually met and even fewer of whom she remembered. There were already so many unavoidable changes that marriage brought about, that to change the man or woman who by their solemn vows had initiated those necessary upheavals of routine and ritual, was too great a task to demand. Once the dust had settled, then she might truly understand who her husband truly was. She imagined it was the same for him.

On her third day at Pemberley, she was alone in a small study on the main floor, staring curiously at a portrait of a man whose likeness she had never thought she would ever see at Pemberley. Darcy was attending to some estate business with his steward, Mr. Thorpe, and she had wandered in here, thinking it led to someplace else, and with errant thoughts and feet, had approached the mahogany mantle and been stopped in her tracks. The blue drapes and dark wood blanketed the room in a somber light, and initially she had been forced to squint at the small picture to be certain. Her vision had gradually adjusted to the dimness. There was no doubt in her mind now. The man was unmistakably George Wickham.

"Oh, pardon me, Mrs. Darcy. I thought the room was empty"

Elizabeth looked up, and her astonishment at being discovered doing something that she suddenly felt was almost criminal, was doubled by the identity of the intruder. It was Mr. Smalls, whom she had not seen since she had left London and who she had believed would stay on at Darcy Manor. While at town she had liked him excessively, as excessively as she liked all the staff members that she had come across. Her delight in their affability was always slightly edged with puzzlement at their approachability, this butler most especially. He was a round, jolly man, with rosy cheeks, a bald head, and seemingly as much at ease with the torpor of dignity on his face as a ready, bright smile. Not the type of personality she would have previously associated with her husband.

Mr. Smalls lingered at the threshold of the room, with a polishing kit in hand and politely waited for his mistress to respond, which Elizabeth did in a hurried manner. "I did not know you had arrived from London, Smalls. It is good to see you again so soon."

"Thank you. Permit me be to be so bold as to say that it is good to see you again also, Mrs. Darcy, and it is always good to be back at Pemberley."

"Forgive me if I seem a bit dull, but do you normally stay here in Derbyshire? I was under the impression you kept to Darcy Manor with Mrs. Smalls."

"We stay wherever the family stays, but we had to close the house and only just arrived in the county this morning. I have already been assured that you are satisfied with Mrs. Reynolds, and I hope you have not been disappointed by Mr. Black."

"No, not at all. He is very attentive."

"Yes, he is," Smalls agreed. "He is an excellent underbutler."

"And what does Mrs. Smalls do whilst you are here? She does not supplant Mrs. Reynolds, I think."

"No, she has only been Mrs. Smalls for the last five years, and Mrs. Reynolds has been at Pemberley for more than three decades. Fortunately, my marriage has never put at risk my employment. Mr. Darcy has ever arranged for her to act as housekeeper to the parsonage during the months we are here; so that she might remain useful and that we might remain near to each other. The parson has a wife and five small children, and is always grateful for the assistance."

Elizabeth's eyes grew wide. "I can well imagine the parson is grateful for even the intermittent help. I have not had the occasion to meet the family. That is quite extraordinary of Mr. Darcy to provide that alternative."

"It is, but Mr. Darcy is quite extraordinary. I cannot think of a better master nor a more liberal-minded and hearted gentleman in his class."

So many souls under William's care, she thought, and now under mine as well. So many souls whose lives he has already blessed. She took this tidbit of information in quiet, knowing she would and must peruse it.

"Do not let me interrupt your duties," she said, distracted. "I was only passing through here. I thought this room led to the conservatory's side door."

"That would be the green parlor, in the north wing."

"Oh, of course…and this is the…"

"South wing," he kindly finished. "Would you like me to call for Mrs. Reynolds or direct you there myself?"

"No, of course not, but thank you." Elizabeth bustled toward Mr. Smalls, glancing behind one last time at the faded portrait, and when she came abreast of him, found herself asking, "Does Mr. Darcy visit this room often?"

"No ma'am hardly ever. It was the late Mr. Darcy's especial favorite, and his son has kept it just as his father left it. We usually show it to travelers who petition to take a tour of the house, but that is all."

Elizabeth nodded. She could not contemplate the strange fact that visitors from all walks of life, touring the countryside, would purposefully go out of their way to come and view her home. Her thoughts were being tugged in different directions and her curiosity, always so volatile, prickled lightly in her mind. She smiled at the placid, friendly butler. He was the safer source for this matter.

"Smalls, did the late Mr. Darcy have a particular fondness for his steward's family? I thought I recognized one of the portraits over there on the mantle as someone I had met last year and who had professed to have some former connection with the Darcy family."

"Yes ma'am," the butler evenly replied. "Mr. George Darcy was very fond of his steward, and of his steward's son, who was christened after his own name. Is Mrs. Darcy acquainted with Mr. George Wickham then?"

"A little," Elizabeth confessed. "He was quartered near my family home this past autumn."

"I had heard he had received a commission. Let us hope, Mrs. Darcy, the rigors of the militia might tame Mr. Wickham. I despise feeling ill toward any person who was raised at Pemberley, but I knew him as a child, and even then, he was as charming as he was cunning. His father was an excellent man, though, and undeserving of such a son."

Mr. Smalls had not wavered in his professional courtesy, but Elizabeth almost blushed at his words, sensing something more beyond their meaning. Quickly, she excused herself and glided down the hall. All intentions of exploring the conservatory on her own had fled.

A pleasant thrill was coursing through her breast. Some of the feeling sprang solely from gratitude. She never could have even begun to trust Darcy or open her heart to him if those matters with Wickham had not been resolved, and in this moment of delighted reflection, was newly grateful that he had corrected her misinformation, even if she realized she must be yet lacking some finer details about the affair. As close and trusted a servant as Mr. Smalls was she doubted he knew of Wickham's attempted larceny of Georgiana's heart and dowry, but he clearly knew of the dissolute ways that had laid the foundation for Wickham's later misdeeds. Certainly he held him in low regard and Darcy in the highest—and therein swelled the main source of her burst of happiness.

What high commendation now, from not only the biased, nearly-besotted Mrs. Reynolds, whose praise of Darcy the other day had made Elizabeth smirk in wonder, or the smattering of deferential tenant farmers she had met, but also from the respectable, likeable butler! What greater praise could a man receive than from those who were his inferiors, and whose happiness depended exclusively on his whims? She could not think of a single gentleman of her acquaintance who was so beloved by all under his watch. For it was not mere esteem these men and women and even children emoted, but actual, energetic admiration. It made her suddenly eager to see her husband, to try and perceive what all those around her seemed to so easily understand about him. Vaguely she realized that it must bode well that she wanted to do such a thing, where just a week or two before, she had still been fighting the urge to flee from his very presence. And to her greatest astonishment, a fresh flush of modest embarrassment on her skin, she wished for the return of his attentions at night.

Not since before their argument had he come to her room. It had only been four days, and for the most part, she was relishing the tranquility of her isolation. Understanding only too well his reasons, she had not felt much rebuffed by his withdrawal. Her vanity was not much wounded by his inattention. She could say nothing to him. She had no injuries to report. No heartache to divulge. During the day he continued to display a reserved tenderness, but she sensed that such refined affection would not do if she were to come to know him, as she now so desired. In their brief marriage, the few times she had experienced anything like a moment of clarity and intimacy with him, had been when they had shared a bed. Flirtation would feel awkward though and seduction was out of the question.

Her nerves overcame her, swooping down upon her as swiftly as her anticipation had surged up within her. She slowed her steps, and leaning against a wall, rubbed her temples. Unsurprisingly she had a headache and needed some fresh air.

~0~

It was during the main course, later that evening, when it struck Darcy that Elizabeth was only pretending to eat.

"Are you unwell Elizabeth?"

"Quite well," she replied, without looking up. "Thank you."

"Are you certain? Perhaps you should have a glass of wine."

"No, thank you, I am quite well. A little fatigued is all. I love walking, but I confess I did not think that part of the park where I explored today was so many miles away, as you informed me of the distance, only after my return."

"I hope it was not too much for you; I would not have suggested Mrs. Reynolds tell you about it otherwise. It is less than three miles, a distance I know you do not mind. The October sun is less demanding, however, than that of May."

"Indeed."

Darcy had hoped for more, but decided he would observe her for the remainder of the evening before trying to persuade her to find some relief for her fatigue. He had been pulled into estate business for most of the day, and had missed her conversation and companionship. It was painful to be around her, when everything teetered so precariously, but it was so much more painful to be removed from her.

Already unable to give in to so many of his impulses, he needed to drink in whatever he could from her. His thirst for her in his life had not waned at all since their fight, in some ways only increasing in urgency. He knew what it was to touch her, to kiss her, to momentarily, even superficially have her. Those months of suffering when he had alternately deliberated and longed for her were laughable to him now. That hadn't been suffering. He hadn't known suffering. This having her, and not holding her, this period of uncertainty and impotence, was torture.

He had wanted to spend as long as possible with her this evening, perhaps ask her to sing for him. He wanted to go to her, but he knew he could not. He would not infringe on her privacy or feelings by imposing his ardor on her now that she had told him the truth. Tonight his time with her would be shortened, his parchedness that much greater. For, she seemed to need considerable rest.

Sighing, he dutifully suggested they spend the evening reading and retire a little earlier. She readily agreed, which did little to lessen his disappointment. His mood only worsened, when he noticed, after only a half hour of sitting and reading in silence, that his wife was not reading at all. She had not turned the page in front of her for at least ten minutes. She was going through the motions of the day, without any real attention.

"Truly, are you well Elizabeth?"

Again, she replied that she was and avoided meeting his eye. If she had not looked so pale, and yet also flushed, he would have thought she was keeping something from him. Her fevered brow saved him from that worry, though, and provoked some real, unselfish concern for her health.

"We do not always have to keep late hours. Shall we retire now?"

Setting aside his book, he stood and offered her his arm, as was their custom. But tonight, she would not take it. She would not even glance up at him. It was insult added to deep injury; it was salt on his desiccated tongue.

"You will not take my arm, Elizabeth? Surely you cannot be that ill."

She gasped and turned her face up toward him, the book sliding off her lap. "I am not ill at all, William."

"Then, why do you deny me even this simple consideration and spurn my approach? Am I so disgusting a friend to you?"

"Disgusting? No, no you are not disgusting."

Darcy did not know what to make of this response. Her face was aglow with perspiration and her body trembled. She looked on the verge of fainting. He forgot his own complaint, and bending down, picked her up. She was his wife, in spite of everything, and she was obviously unwell. Elizabeth cried out, a willowy shout of surprise.

"William, you must put me down."

"I'll not have you catch your death because you are reluctant to admit you have caught a cold."

"I am not sick."

"You forget Elizabeth," he said, pushing through the parlor doors, "I have a very sickly cousin and am a near father to my very fragile sister. I know when a young woman is ill."

Elizabeth remained silent, either because their voices would carry down the hall or because she had realized how futile her protestations were. Darcy did not have time to wonder at the reason for her surrender and easily jogged up the stairs. Once they had reached her chamber door he set her down. He was out of breath, but not due to overexertion. He stared down at her bowed head, wanting things he could not have, things he could not have even if she were well.

"Good night, Elizabeth," he uttered, giving her a light kiss on her head. "Don't hesitate to seek me out or ring the staff if you desire something, other than rest."

He started to walk away, but stopped as she finally replied. Her voice was so low that he had to lean in, and what she was saying was so incredible, that he had to lean in even further.

"I am not unwell, William. I am nervous. I do desire something, other than rest. To be more exact, I desire someone." Slowly she raised her head. "I desire to have a husband tonight."

Without another word, Elizabeth turned around and entered her room. Her door yawned wide open. Darcy paused, regaining the control of his muscles. He had heard everything that she had said, and everything that she had not said. He took the two strides into her room and shut out the rest of the house.

_Note: Sorry it's a bit late, again. Because of the holiday I am not certain I'll be able to post anything until Monday, but we'll see. The next chapter is still under construction. It depends how quickly I can finish it. Oh, and for those who didn't see my last note, sorry about the Bath mix-up. I changed it to Weymouth. I forgot to change it after I had added the sea paragraph…and it's worse because I have been to Bath…And I know I'll need to change my phrase "London" butler. Most likely, the main butler buttled back and forth between town and country.  
_


	21. Chapter 21

_**Chapter 21: Red as Rubies**_

If someone had told Elizabeth at that Meryton assembly when she had first been seen and slighted by Mr. Darcy that she would be married to him in seven months, she would have thought they were mad. If that same person had told her that she would enjoy being married to him, she would have thought she had gone mad. Sane or not, she was married to him, and sane or not, she was enjoying being married to him.

Elizabeth would never be able to tell what she did on any particular day during those busy weeks at her new home—time and moments converging into a meaningful fog. The world was changing around her, but everything still looked the same. It was like watching amber harden. She moved through the motions of the day—planning meals, organizing the ball, becoming acquainted with Pemberley and all its mysteries—but all her actions were clouded beneath this golden haze of transformation.

Her first weeks at Pemberley flew by in this daze. She had so much to do, and so many people to meet; a ball to plan where all who thrived and lived off of Pemberley lands would be invited, the farmers dancing alongside the gentry, the earls alongside the smiths, as every member from each rank and file celebrated the nuptials of the master of the estate. It was a daunting task for Elizabeth, which she rose up to accept and excel at with her usual humor and grace. Added to all the flurry of the comings and goings of such an extensive property was the whir of emotion spinning round in her heart.

She knew things were changing, she was changing, but she was not ignorant or foolish enough to suppose that Darcy had completely forgotten what she had harshly confessed to him or that she had completely forgiven him for all his arrogant cruelty. She had been forced to do some hard thinking and examine some of her own actions, a necessity which was more difficult for her than preparing for a grand ball, but with the incoming change on the horizon, born of a blustering, hot wind of self-realization, she knew that their pivotal argument had been the culmination of months of willful delusion and preemptory judgments. And she was determined to do all in her power, employing all of her considerable intellect and heart, to patiently sound out her own feelings and suspend suspicion of Darcy's sometimes dubious courtesies before making any vows or retracting any curses. In short, she was determined to understand him by first understanding herself.

On the morning of her one month anniversary, she drowsily awoke. Warm, red swirling thoughts—traces of some forgotten experience— churned in her mind and behind her closed lids. Before fully opening her eyes and banishing the remnants of what she believed was a luxurious dream, she moved around her hands, feeling the soft linens of her bed, the feathery lift of her pillow, and finally the smooth, hard body of her husband. Elizabeth smiled somewhere between mortification and wantonness, and opening her eyes, turned her head. With a creeping, happy embarrassment she stifled a giggle. Those delicious, sunset-hued memories were not fantasies—last night had been real, as real as all the other nights. She stifled another wondering giggle, and rolled onto her side toward Darcy. Hesitating, she shifted herself closer, and pausing again, slowly nestled her head onto his shoulder. She felt one of his arms fold over her waist, and looked up to see if she had woken him, but his eyes were still closed, his breathing still the slow rise and fall undulations of a person fast asleep.

Elizabeth stared at her sleeping husband, studying his face without the risk of his deep eyes questioning her. She could not recall a time in their short marriage when she had woken up before him. Before her marriage she had always assumed she was the earliest of risers, but after knowing Darcy, she could not lay claim to such a boast. Rarely was he still in her bed by the time she stirred, and never had he been the second to wake. He always seemed to be one careful step ahead of her, even in sleep, but not this morning. The fastidious Darcy had not outdone her this time. And she was glad of it. She wondered if he always looked so peaceful in the mornings. Somehow his face appeared more relaxed than she had ever seen it. And his expression, tired but content, reminded her of the tranquil rest seen on babes just after they were removed from their mother's breast and drunken with her milk.

Elizabeth placed her hand over her abdomen, contemplating what might come from her own nights of passion. Would Darcy be pleased if she were to be with child so soon? She had never witnessed him interacting with children, and despite their deepening intimacy, she found it difficult to imagine him engaging in the fantastical world of a child's mind. Would she be pleased? The answer came before the question had been fully formed—yes. Yes, she would be pleased. Yes, she would be glad.

Still asleep, Darcy moved, swinging his other long arm across her stomach, and pressed himself against his wife. Elizabeth's reverie was broken, and she suddenly felt a swoosh of desire. During her maidenhood, she had never believed performing wifely duties would be so fulfilling, so powerful, had never envisioned such a dizzying empowerment from the union of body and flesh. Flushing, she recollected last night's slow, hot experience. She remembered each night's warm, fragrant thrill. Always when Darcy came to her, she sensed that she was meeting for the first time the real Fitzwilliam Darcy. He would caress her with affection and silently, patiently encourage her in her timid explorations of his body. The hauteur and frigidity of his daytime mien would melt away, and he would become unrestrained and unmasked. He was, she hoped, simply himself.

Elizabeth sank deeper into Darcy's embrace, pressing her face shyly into his skin, smelling his familiar scent of lemongrass and leather. At times she felt as though she knew him better than anyone, and at other times, she felt she knew him least of all. Yet, with an instinctual certainty, she knew that they had started on a new, frightening, and ultimately exciting pathway. Their past mistakes and persistent misunderstandings loomed ahead, as arching branches that must shadow their sojourn from time to time, but eventually those hurts would be left far behind. Without thinking, Elizabeth stretched up and kissed his scratchy cheek.

Darcy's eyes blinked open. Modesty flooded back into her bosom and she bolted upright. His arms fell heavily back onto the mattress as she yanked the covers up to her nightgown's neckline. Groggily Darcy searched her crimson face and slowly eased into a sitting position.

"Morning, Elizabeth." The huskiness of slumber and desire textured his rich voice. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, quite," she mumbled, smoothing the sheets. "Did you?"

"I thank you, yes."

Their brief exchanged ended. Darcy continued to stare at her, his eyes dark with emotion. She fidgeted, slicking her tendrils behind her ear, straightening the covers across her body, and folding her arms and unfolding them. Her gaze flitted nervously back and forth between him and the window. The sun glowed through the chiffon drapes and basked the room in white light. Song birds chirped merrily outside. But everything was colored with a hue of red for her, she wished her mortification would bleed out of her mind and skin as quickly as it had come. She wished he would finish his blatant scrutiny.

"Are you very busy with Mr. Thorpe today?" she asked, hoping to force a return of normalcy, her eyes averted. "I had thought I heard Smalls say something about the early planting last night."

"Yes. I should probably even yet be downstairs."

"Oh. Do not remain here on my account. I have enough to do today. I will be sending out the rest of the invitations."

"Yes, you told me as much last night."

"That's right."

She still could not meet his eye, and pretended to be interested in the picture across the room. But he called her name, caressing it with such tenderness, that she could not help but turn her head and look at him. A quiet passion infused his features, a light his eyes. Some of the tremors in her heart slowed, a steadier, deeper feeling arose.

"Please, Elizabeth, do not be embarrassed for showing me unsolicited affection. The spontaneity of it makes it that much more endearing to me, and gives me that much more hope."

Before she could open her mouth to reply, Darcy cupped his hand behind her neck and drew her toward him. He kissed her warm cheeks. He kissed her trembling jaw. At last, he moved his mouth over her own, pulling her closer and pushing against the small of her back with one hand. His lips paused just above her own, and he said, "Please, Lizzy, don't ever be afraid to show me that you might care."

It was the first time he had called her Lizzy. It was the first time he cradled her fleshly against him with the morning's rays shining all around. It was the first time he made her realize how much she already cared.

~0~

Colonel Fitzwilliam sat on the beach, raking his fingers through the sand and watching Georgiana try to outrace the waves as they sped up the shore. He laughed again and again at her fresh peal of shock every time the cold water slapped against her ankles. The sun beat down upon them with a kind heat. The gulls circled the calm sea with an angry energy and the wind tousled the ribbons and hair of every maiden within sight.

Her cheeks bright and her chest heaving, Georgiana finally stumbled back over to him and laughingly plopped down beside him. "It's such a lovely day, Henry."

"Made all the lovelier by you," he teased, tugging at her wind-swept hair. 'What are we going to do with you come next spring when all the eligible suitors are lining up to try and win your affection?"

She blushed, deepening the flush of exertion on her skin to a bright cherry, and swatted his hand away. "No one's going to want to marry me." Her smile wavered. "They'll only want to marry my name and fortune."

"No, no dear Georgie. They'll want to marry you, because any man who wants you only for your dowry is not worth a single farthing."

"Do such men exist? Or women for that matter? Does not every person seek to aggrandize his or her own wealth and standing?"

"You have been listening too much to Phillip."

"Perhaps, but in my narrow experience, he speaks the truth."

Fitzwilliam sat up straighter, and brushed his thumb against Georgiana's cheek. "I thought we agreed that we were only going to discuss happy matters on this trip. No Wickham. No woes. And for me, no women, apart from your excellent company."

Georgiana smiled meekly at him, and rolled her head downward. She circled her finger in the sand, etching flowers in the sand, and said in a low voice: "Sometimes I wish I were as poor as Elizabeth." She flicked her brown eyes up at him. They seemed to know more than they should, or it could be that he wanted them to see more. The colonel shifted, masking his misgiving with a quick smirk. Georgiana bit her lip and looked back down at her sand art. "Elizabeth must know how very much William loves her. How wonderful that must be for the both of them."

Fitzwilliam stared out across the sea. The water danced as liquid diamonds in the bright sunshine. The sparkling scene reminded him of the night a month ago when Lady Henley had sleeked into his supper and coiled her truth around his peace. Elizabeth's eyes had sparked with the same mystifyingly beautiful glitter as the ocean, twinkling in that artless way, glinting at him as a light on the land to his sea-tossed soul; right up until the countess had disclosed his secret and the sparkle in Elizabeth's eyes had dimmed. But he was not supposed to reflect on that, not now and not ever.

"Nothing is at it seems on the outside," he sighed, turning back to his cousin. "Nothing is always wonderful Georgiana."

Her brows knitted in confusion. "What do you mean? Are William and Elizabeth unhappy?"

"Do not take me so literally. I only mean that no one knows what it is like to be in any given relationship unless they are in that given relationship. Elizabeth does not have to worry if Darcy married her for her worldly connections, but have you ever thought about the reverse? Perhaps Darcy has had to worry."

To his surprise, Georgiana giggled at him. "Oh, Henry, that's the silliest thing I've ever heard. William, worry! Who wouldn't want to marry my brother—even if he were the poorest man in Derbyshire? You do know how to lighten my spirits, though. Thank you. I shall not be so dreary anymore. I will keep out pact."

Nonplussed, Fitzwilliam accepted her gratitude in silence. She shrugged her shoulders at him, and threw her face up toward the sun. Her bonnet slid off as she grinned at the clear sky. He wished he could be so free of cynicism, so devoid of doubt. Georgiana's youth had saved her from most of the harm of Wickham's treachery. Her heart must almost be whole once more, her soul's ability to rejuvenate as true as her supple skin's ability to heal. He was envious of her optimism, ready to dispose of his pessimism.

They did not remain thus for long—Fitzwilliam glowering and Georgiana glowing. Georgiana's friends soon arrived to break up the lazy afternoon. When she spotted them, she immediately leapt up and ran toward them, calling out to them as though she had not seen them in years, instead of a single night. It amazed the colonel how his shy cousin would somehow blossom with exuberance and near boisterousness when in the presence of her school friends. During their month at Weymouth Georgiana had spent almost every waking minute with her friend, Miss Tuppets and her friend's lady companion, Mrs. Stone. It was so constant that Mrs. Annesley had taken to snoozing more than was her wont; in fact she hadn't even bothered to exert herself out of doors for this afternoon beach adventure.

Despite her soporific companionship, Fitzwilliam had not even considered asking her to leave her employment. She had only been appointed because she had been in the earl's family for years, passed along as a cherished surrogate grandmother from female to female. After the debacle of Mrs. Young, all Darcy and Fitzwilliam had desired for Georgiana's keeping was a companion in whose character they could trust, and in whose heart there existed little malice. In Mrs. Annesly, they had found both. And years of experience had taught Fitzwilliam that although the lady often appeared to be in the deepest slumber, she could snap her eyes open and relay every detail about what Georgiana had been doing and even often exactly what she had been saying. That was, of course, contingent on Mrs. Annesley being present.

Fitzwilliam chuckled softly then, and with the affectionate eye of a father, admired Georgiana laughing with her friends. She was as dear to him as his own sister, and beloved by him as his own daughter. It had been one of his happiest moments when Darcy had asked him if he would share guardianship of her with him, the one bright spot on the dark day of his uncle's funeral. They had been standing at the graveside, letting the rain soak their jackets. Streaks of water had trickled down Darcy's face, and Fitzwilliam had kept his eyes fixed on the ground, knowing there were as many tears as raindrops streaming down his cousin's cheeks. All of the other guests had departed, but Fitzwilliam had remained by Darcy's side. Finally, after several minutes of silent mourning, Darcy had turned to him and told him that his father had charged him with Georgiana's care, but had encouraged him to seek out a joint guardian. With his eyes rimmed in red and glossy with tears, he had asked Fitzwilliam if he would share the honor of raising his sister.

"If you say no, I will go it alone," Darcy had added. "There is no one in whose judgment I trust so soundly, or in whom I believe so fully will love my sister as she deserves to be loved."

The rain had poured down and Fitzwilliam had held onto only one thought, one answer: "Of course."

The colonel smiled to himself, the ghosts of the past touching him with a melancholic nostalgia. He doubted Darcy would say the same thing now. If given a second chance, would he still offer him the blessing of standing in as a father for Georgiana? Would he still call him brother?

Georgiana's melodic laugh chimed on the sea breeze and Fitzwilliam shook the fruitless wonderings from his mind. Whatever chasm had split open between Darcy and he, they were still tethered by their love for Georgiana. That was not a connection that could now be severed. The colonel watched as a straggle of young gentlemen joined the three young ladies. The boys could not be more than eighteen, probably at the end of their first year at university. From the open stance of Miss Tuppets, she appeared to already know at least one of them. He heard the murmur of introductions, amused by the flashy manners and foppish gesticulations of the boys pretending to be grown men. Georgiana grew noticeably less animated; floating to the back of the group as they all came traipsing toward him.

Fitzwilliam stood, nodding at Miss Tuppets and Mrs. Stone. He waited for Mrs. Stone's very pretty smile, and her warm eyes to cheer his spirit. She could not be much older than Georgiana, perhaps three or four years, but she was already a widow. There was a profound sadness in her kind eyes, which never entirely faded from her gentle expressions. He did not know her history more than that, but felt a bond with her, as he always did with those who had also known tragedy. Carnage and desolation, he knew, were not only byproducts of war.

Miss Tuppets, whose strong features and large stature matched her bold personality, stepped forward, needing little encouragement to take the lead.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam," she boomed, "may I introduce you to my neighbor, Mr. Edmund Carter and his friends, Mr. Geoffrey Pope and—oh sorry milord," she said suddenly, spinning toward the tall young man to her left, "I should have introduced you first."

The young man waved off her apology. "No need to stand upon ceremony at a beach, Miss Tuppets. My mother always says formality is unnecessary unless it can lead to a celebration."

Fitzwilliam smiled and raised one eye brow. "And who is your mother, young man? I would dearly like to meet a lady who lives by that philosophy."

"But I believe you are already acquainted with her, sir. I doubt there are two Colonel Ftizwilliams who are currently lodging in Weymouth."

"Who is your mother that I would know her and not her son?"

"She is the Countess of Catchold, Lady Henley and I am the Earl of Catchold, her son, Peter Henley."

Hiding his chagrin behind a façade of courtesy, Fitzwilliam was about to ask if the countess had also come to Weymouth, but at that moment, something red moved in the corner of his eye and he looked up. Standing on the ridge above, her auburn hair blowing freely, lashing at the wind as ropes of fire and her skirts twisting with the same violent flutter, was Lady Henley.

A month, it seemed, was as long as she had been willing to go without interrupting his solitude. She waved at him, a knowing grin on her striking face. And the colonel, unable to suppress a smirk at her boldness, bowed in return.

_Note: Sorry I had hoped to post this yesterday, or even earlier today. But after finishing my frivolous post (my GWTW chapter) yesterday I had some personal things unexpectedly pop up. We were so close to going a year without a visit to the ER…Now we'll have to start the countdown all over. Thanks for the reviews. I know there wasn't much actual conversation between Elizabeth and Darcy, but I hope you enjoyed her thoughts. They'll chat next chapter, I promise. Happy Earth Day… _


	22. Chapter 22

**_Chapter 22: North-wing Abbey_**

Darcy finally discovered Elizabeth in the small, spare parlor that had been the dumping grounds for estate refuse since he could recall. The room spilled its debris of papers and tattered books, jumbled furniture and misshapen shadows across his amused view. His wife was absorbed in reading a letter, with her legs curled up on a lumpy sofa and mounds of envelopes strewn all around her. She was not at all where he had expected to find her, and it was not at all what he disliked.

The entire atmosphere here sung with a carefree melody. It was messy and unrefined but the disarray did not speak of mean neglect. For all the disorder and all the wear of the items in this room, the broken frames and splintered dressers not withstanding, happiness and beauty whispered in his ear. This room had always been his secret haven, his home within his sprawling manor. As a lad he had spent hours in this forsaken corner, playing or reading or simply dreaming.

It had been a long time since he had approached this door, though. It had been a long time since a hearth had glowed with warmth here, since candles had sputtered into the night, since he had known what it was to be a child. Faint images, things he could almost remember, tapped on his shoulder. He nearly turned around to see if the dreams from his past hid behind a crooked chair. Life had not always been so complicated. There had been a time when strong arms had cradled him, when loving smiles had caressed him, when a mother and a father had wrapped him against their chests. But those people no longer existed. They were no more than ghosts. The last time he had come in here had been the day his father had been buried. And on that day, as on so many other days when he had sought sanctuary here, he had not been alone.

Fitzwilliam had been with him then, had found him in here when the funeral guests had wondered where the new Master of Pemberley had gone. For as boys, whenever Henry would visit, they would waste the raining days in this very room, building forts and plotting battle plans aimed at annoying Phillip. The warm memories faded from Darcy's eyes. The only way he had found not to hate his beloved cousin, was to not think of him at all.

He shuffled further into the room, and Elizabeth startled, her letter shooting out of her fingers and a cry of surprise from her throat. Her legs flew down from their unladylike pose, a flash of her stockings and skin as her dress came fluttering down to the carpet, and then recognition flashed across her face.

"William," she panted, pressing her palm against her chest. "You gave me such a fright."

"Forgive me, Elizabeth," he muttered. He leaned down and collected the sheets of her letter from the floor, and handing them back to her, scanned the room again. Even in the dim light of the fire, he could perceive the shimmer of polish and the decrease of dust. He sat down and crossed his legs, smiling at his wife. "When did you start hiding out in here? It's never looked so clean."

Elizabeth was folding her letter, but paused at his question, and puckered her lips in embarrassment. "Do you disapprove William?"

"No, not at all. I am merely surprised."

She grimaced doubtfully at him and set her letter in a tall stack at her feet. No verbal reply was necessary for him to know her thoughts.

"You are dubious of my sincerity?"

"No, I am not dubious of it, I am absolutely disbelieving of it." She cast her eyes about the room, a sweet joy on her face. "I stumbled across here a few days ago. I know it is not quite as grand or conventional as the office downstairs, but during the day it has the most delightful view of—"

"The side gardens, and in the winter, when the trees are bare of their leaves, you can see the Peaks on a clear day," he finished.

Elizabeth stared at him, blinking in wonder, and Darcy smirked. "This was my favorite spot to sneak away to as a child. I am happy you have discovered its charms."

Elizabeth kept silent, her face still awash in awe. Darcy leaned toward her and gently cupped her chin. "Will you never cease to be amazed that I was not always the Mr. Darcy you met in Hertfordshire?"

Her blush spread over her cheeks as a dusty rose in the honey hue of the firelight. He felt the warmth of the flush on his fingertips. His instinct was to kiss her, but he hesitated. Would she be eager in this moment? Would she be shy? Would she be indifferent? He studied her face, as he had for so many months. The desire for her skin had dwindled, replaced by a much darker, much deeper need. He could name the number of freckles on her nose. He could describe the flecks of color in her eyes. He could draw the precise shape of her mouth. But he did not know if she loved him and he could not ask.

Darcy dropped his hand and moved back, drumming his fingers on the sofa. Elizabeth fidgeted beside him, twirling her rowdy hair, inhaling slowly, and rolling her ankles. At last she folded her arms neatly in her lap and spoke.

"I do know you are a different man, William, than the one I met, but that does not mean all my previous notions of your character are forgotten, nor that they should be. My first impression of you was not wholly bad—or mistaken."

"That is somewhat a relief, I suppose," he dryly answered.

"'Relief or not, it is true." Suddenly her eyes sparked with mischief, and he saw her relax. "You know, to own the truth, my very, very first thought of you was extremely complimentary."

"Indeed?" A small smile curved over his lips. It was hard for him to resist grinning at her when she dazzled him with her wit. It had always been thus.

"Indeed. I recall as though it were yesterday noticing you walk into that assembly hall and thinking that you were one of the handsomest gentlemen I had ever seen."

"This is compliment itself," he laughed. "Was that all?"

"Not exactly, no, you must recall that I did fancy myself an excellent judge of character—"

"Do you no longer consider yourself one?"

"On the contrary, I know I am an excellent judge of character—I am just abominably poor at applying the correct character to the correct person." They both laughed at this, a little hesitatingly, and Elizabeth spiritedly continued on: "Although, I also remember that my second thought of you was not completely off the mark. I pegged you to be a man of order, which in almost every aspect of your life, you are. So, returning to the impetus of this topic, you can see that my astonishment at learning of your fondness for this room is not founded on mistaken prejudices, but on accurate observations of your nature. If I told you that I was very quiet as a child, I doubt you would believe me, without some confirming testimony from Jane."

"You were quiet as a child?"

"I was," she mused, a memory that he did not know rising up in her bright gaze. "That is partially why this derelict treasure of a room drew me in. As a very young girl I would often choose to spend my days either in the forgotten branches of trees or the dusty attics of Longbourn. My mother was not always so pleased with my antics, as she termed them, and would become quite flustered at my dirty appearance, but my father never minded. In fact, he encouraged me in what he labeled my appetite for voraciousness. I still like the sound of that phrase."

"It's poetic."

A long sigh blew out from both their lips. It was moments like these, when Elizabeth was happy and lively, and he was content and engaged, that his hope for their future became a palpable reality. She bent down and scooped up the piles at her feet, shrinking them into one binded mass of papers.

"I apologize for interrupting your reading," he said, recalling why he had sought her out before supper in the first place "Were you reading Jane's letter?"

"You are observant, William," she said with a wink. "Yes, I did read it, again, when I first curled up on this sofa."

"I finally received Bingley's account of things." Darcy looked down at his hands, his voice deepening with a note of self-incrimination. "I am glad, gladder than you know that my efforts proved so useless in the end, and that they are to be married."

To his surprise, he felt the brush of his wife's lips across his cheek. He looked at her. Her eyes were kind when she said, "I can see that you are not the man I once thought you were, William. I know you have changed."

He did want to change for her. He had been trying to turn his heart in a different direction. The hard truths that she had spoken against him had opened his eyes to a hardness within himself, a meanness that he had always been able to write off as respectable indifference. Now he knew that he could not go about the world and remain so separate from it. He could not only be in the world, he had to belong to it. With that realization in mind, with that desire in mind, he had planned something for Elizabeth. At their wedding he had seen how much she adored her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner and he had secretly extended them an invitation to come to Pemberley for the upcoming ball. It would be his gift to her and he hoped that she would understand all the significance of that act, all that it implied. He hoped that the simple gesture revealed the slow, painful transformation of his heart.

He watched her sifting through her letters. A softness overcame her features, as her gaze fell on one particular letter. Quietly he asked her what brought such pleasant reflections to her eyes.

"I was reading a letter from Georgiana when you came in."

Darcy smiled. Georgiana's letters to Elizabeth were much longer than her letters to her brother. He did not feel slighted by the decrease in confidences, though. He was beyond happy that his sister had at last a female relative in whom she wished to tell her secrets and in whom she trusted her own tender heart. He said as much to Elizabeth and she nodded.

"True, she is not blessed with many women in her family with whom she might readily relate." Elizabeth tilted her head to the side. "I wonder Georgiana does not have a closer relationship with Lady Fitzwilliam, though."

Often Darcy had wished the aunt with whom Elizabeth was most acquainted was Lady Fitzwilliam instead of Lady Catherine. Elizabeth had read him Lady Catherine's reply to their invitation—which he had not even wanted to send to her—and had thankfully laughed at the crass disapproval of the Mistress of Rosings, instead of censuring him for his rude relation.

"Lady Fitzwilliam is the most likely other option," he agreed. "She is most like my mother was. She shares her good nature, but unfortunately she shares her poor health, as well, and is not often up for entertaining guests."

"Yes, I could tell."

"Did you speak with her much at our wedding?"

He had not noticed them interacting much during the luncheon, although the entire day was a blur to him, fading even more in definition as the weeks passed by.

"No, I did not really speak with her there, but she wrote me the kindest reply to my invitation. It was beyond the requirements of duty or courtesy. She said that she would do her best to feel well and be able to come and visit for the ball."

"It is possible. She does usually feel healthier during the summer months."

Elizabeth stroked her thumb across her book of letters, contemplative. "I would like it if Lady Fitzwilliam could come," she said, pausing and glancing a little warily at Darcy. Immediately he tensed, out of habit more than premonition.

"Any particular reason, other than the obvious ones?"

"Has Georgiana written much to you about the friends she is with in Weymouth?"

"Yes," Darcy sighed. "I had the great privilege of meeting Miss Tuppets during Christmas. Her family's estate is not very far from here, and Miss Tuppets came and spent a week or so here in December. I remember calling her—"

Suddenly he cut himself off and Elizabeth raised one of her delicate brows at him. "You remember calling her?" she prodded.

Darcy smiled sheepishly, and shrugged. "I remember calling her the wealthy counterpart to Miss Lydia Bennet."

"Oh."

"I meant your sister no harm. Miss Tuppets is not malicious. She is only—"

"William, it is alright. Do not think I will become offended anew every time I hear something ill against my own family, especially if it is true. So, Miss Tuppets must be a very energetic, animated sort of girl, but from a well-to-do family?"

"She is. It is one of the reasons I am not more adverse to Georgiana spending so much time with her. Her dowry is ten thousand pounds more than my sister's, and so in that regard, she spares Georgiana from one fortune hunter out of two. But what has Georgiana been telling you about her?"

"It is not her precisely, but Miss Tuppets' companion, a Mrs. Stone—do you know her as well?"

A faint heat crept into Darcy's face, but he doubted Elizabeth could perceive it in the low-light of the dusk and the small fire. "I do know Mrs. Stone," he replied. "She is the other reason, the main reason, I am fond of Georgiana spending time with Miss Tuppets. Mrs. Stone is a good influence on whomever she is around."

Elizabeth's expression was veiled from his view, as she bowed her head and nodded. "I gathered that. Georgiana appears to care a great deal for both of these young women, and she is especially concerned for Mrs. Stone."

"She is? Why?" He cooled his interest when he saw the clear distrust in Elizabeth's eye, and asking in a more measured tone, "What is the matter with Mrs. Stone?"

"That is just it. Georgiana does not know, but her anxiety for her friend is such that she confessed she does not know if she will be attending the ball. She may just come to us the following month."

Darcy forced himself to suppress his shock; he was not ready to divulge anything he knew about Mrs. Stone, and her previous connection to his family. If possible, he wanted Elizabeth to learn to love him for what he chose to do now, what he would do in the future, not what he had done in the past.

"I pray Georgiana does come, and that Mrs. Stone is well," was all he chose to say.

"Me, also." Elizabeth bit her lip, and he wondered at her apparent hesitancy. Perhaps she already knew about Mrs. Stone, he thought. Perhaps he would not be breaking confidences if he revealed her history. But his honor would not permit him to breach trust in that way, not with such little evidence.

"Was there anything else Georgiana told you in your letter?"

Again his wife bit her lip, and her face flashed with color. "It is not only Georgiana who wrote it, actually. It was curious, though. Lady Fitzwilliam and Georgiana, oddly enough, wrote almost the exact same thing to me."

"That is an oddity. What was it?"

"They both wrote that if they could not come, then they would at least make sure that Colonel Fitzwilliam came to lessen your disappointment."

Elizabeth said this in a breathy torrent and it took Darcy a moment for his mind to catch up with his ears. When it had, he felt the return of his unease and the clench of his muscles. Of course Georgiana had written to him of all the things she had been doing with her other guardian. Of course Darcy had skimmed over any mention of his cousin. Of course he had avoided any reference to him when with Elizabeth. But it had nagged at him, what Georgiana might have written about Fitzwilliam in her longer letters to Elizabeth, what high, unadorned praise Elizabeth might be privy to learning from the gushing pen of his sister about her "wonderful Henry."

Elizabeth called to him, and he turned to her. He saw the tremor in her hands. The last thing he had ever wanted was to give her discomfort. Yet the jealousy he had been suppressing and ignoring for so long was snaking its way into his awareness.

'William," she said, stretching out her hand and resting it gently on his forearm. "I do not want anything to stand as an obstacle between you and your cousin."

"Right now, I worry more what stands as an obstacle between you and me, Elizabeth, than between him and me."

"Lady Henley's claim need not stand in between anything."

"It was not a claim."

"Well then an accusation."

"It wasn't that, either. It was the truth. You know that, though, so why have you chosen to forget it? Your willing forgetfulness concerns me far more than what Lady Henley said."

"It is best to forget the past if it can only bring harm."

"Maybe one day I will think as you do, but I cannot about this, and not so soon. Can you honestly tell me you do not think about it at all? That it is not one of the reasons we have yet to come to a better understanding?"

"I can, and I am. I never loved your cousin, and while I am flattered that he felt something tender for me at some point in our acquaintance, I am not obligated beyond feeling anything more than gratitude. I am not compelled by any deeper emotion to feel more than I actually do."

"Thank you, madam," he said more sharply than he had intended. "I am well aware that nothing compels you to feel any deeper emotion than you actually do. I do not need to be reminded of that, I assure you."

Elizabeth plucked her hand from his arm and recoiled back. "Why are you doing this William? We do not need to do this."

For weeks now Darcy had waited, teaching himself to hope and learning to be the man Elizabeth could love without regret. He had been patient, more patient than he had thought possible. And a man such as him only had so much patience. Abruptly he stood and stared down at her. He needed space from her, space to breathe.

"Perhaps you do not need to, but I do. I do not wonder that Fitzwilliam loves you, and I mean _loves_ you, not loved you—grant me the leniency for knowing how a man's heart works, my dear, and my cousin's heart in particular—but I do wonder that you do not love him in return."

"Grant me the leniency for knowing how my own heart works, and believe me if you cannot believe it on principle alone that I do not love him, and never have."

"But you did prefer him to me. You preferred any man to me—I will never forget those words."

"No, but I hope you may remember new ones. I hope you may remember what we have been saying for these last few weeks, what I hope we might say in the coming weeks and years."

"If things had been different, if Fitzwilliam had been the same in manner and character, but richer in means, and I had been the same, or even if I had been wealthier, do you not see that you would have chosen, without hesitation or regret, him instead of me?"

"No, I cannot see that. I do not know what I would have done if things had been different. There is no point in debating hypotheticals of this kind. This isn't a parlor room amusement, William. This is our lives."

Elizabeth's palms were splayed open to him. Her eyes pled for peace. It was hard to find the balance between possibilities and expectations, hard to tell where he stood with her. But he knew he did not want this distance now. In a long sigh, his hand shaking through his hair, Darcy sat back down on the sofa.

"I know this is our lives, Elizabeth. That is why it does matter to me. I do not need hypotheticals to know that if nothing had been different, except my cousin's reticence in acting on his feelings for you, you would right now be Mrs. Henry Fitzwilliam instead of Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy. And I would be on a beach with Georgiana, trying to forget the fact that I loved you and could never have you." He looked at his wife, and glided his fingers along the soft skin of her cheek. "That's the worst part of it all, Lizzie. I'm jealous of what Fitzwilliam would already have with you in another life, even though he never will in this one."

She smiled meekly at him, and placed her hand over his own. Wound so tight, her touch easily pulled the tenuous thread that unraveled his calm. She was still so close to him, but so far away. He could not stay here in this uncertainty. Aware that supper was even now warm on its silver platters below, that the heavy door was slightly ajar, and that his wife of six weeks had not declared her love for him, he could not resist the pull and pushed himself toward Elizabeth. And for the first time in many years, Darcy found escape in this forgotten room at Pemberley—only it was not the escape of a child into a child's world, but the escape of a man into a woman's arms.

_Note: Sorry I just re-read it and changed some errors. I hope I got them all. That is what I get for writing this in about two hours... I hope you enjoy. So, yes, the title is a play on Northanger Abbey, which is the most "gothic" of all of Austen's pieces. It might even be considered a satire of the genre. I was playing on some of those spooky, melodramatic themes here.  
_


	23. Chapter 23

**_Chapter 23: A Shocking Place_**

_Note: This chapter is heavy, heavy enough that I changed the rating to a T. The title of the chapter is from a letter that Austen wrote about Weymouth "Weymouth is altogether a shocking place I perceive without recommendation of any kind…" _

Weymouth was a place of dissipation for dissolute people, or so Colonel Fitzwilliam discovered the longer he remained there. The fashionable and the fake flocked to the shores, basking in the warmth of their own glory and carrying on in the most raucous manner. Shunning such insipidity, he kept himself locked behind the doors of his family's Weymouth residence or out in the open air of the less trendy beaches. He chose not to see or be seen. He chose not to mingle with the hordes. He chose not to seek enjoyment outside the small circle of Georgiana and her friends. The only exception to this was Lady Henley. But she was, after all, exceptional.

Either from respect for Fitzwilliam or fatigue of the _ton_, the famous Countess of Cuckholds did not engage in her usual infamous exploits. Her present discretion stirred up nearly as much scandal as her former ignominy. People whispered on the streets that she had suffered a terrible devastation, that someone had broken her heart. Wild conjectures about the identity of the reckless fiend tore through the small resort town, none of them close to the truth. When these fantastical rumors would reach the colonel's ears, as they were inevitably bound to do, he would smirk in wonder and shake his head. His vanity was inflated by the speculative hot air, which was soothing to a man who had been brought down by a dejected heart, but they did little to nudge his affection in a new direction.

Almost daily Fitzwilliam would see Lady Henley, her son and his friends and Georgiana and her friends having melded together as one mass of young, bright faces, too old to be considered children and too young to be deemed adults. Their little troupe frolicking on the beach or laughing throughout the town became a fixture of delight for passersby. Mrs. Stone was by far the colonel's favorite out of the group, not just because she was slightly older and wise beyond her years, but because she had a calming, almost healing, quality in her rich voice. When she sang the lyrics became a prayer and the melody a psalm. And her pleasant conversation rang in his ears as a familiar lullaby. But for some reason, this genteel lady's companion with the captivating voice grew more and more withdrawn from him and less and less inclined to talk or perform after the arrival of Lady Henley and her son.

Lady Henley and Fitzwilliam would often stand near the young misses and beaux, relegated to the periphery of their innocent bliss. The two could talk for hours, without any delayed pauses or need for another speaker. Their minds were both bent toward learning, their tongues for conversing, and their humors for amusement. At times he believed he could fall in love with her, but then she would say something, something almost too brutal for expression and too callous for endurance. She was possessive of him also, with a fierceness that perplexed him for he struggled to know how to counteract it. Once or twice he wondered if the countess was the cause behind Mrs. Stone's more reticent behavior, for he would sometimes perceive an almost jealous glint in her ladyship's eye aimed at Mrs. Stone that he knew would terrify braver souls than a demure lady's companion. And because of all these things, these sporadic but consistent displays of cruelty, Fitzwilliam would recall why he did not already love Lady Henley. He would remember why he yet stubbornly loved another.

As the weeks rolled by, as constant and hypnotic as the tides, he began to fully understand the force of unrequited love. Possibility existed in this world of endless hope and endless torment, without any attention to actualities. That was the power of this sort of yearning. Unrequited love is more terrible than real love. It does not bend or alter according to reality's harshness or cruelty. It remains ever a dream, fixed in the mind as a perfect illusion. Nothing can defile its holiness, its perfection.

The colonel saw this truth in the countess' undisguised looks of longing, felt it in the feverish touches of polite contact, when he would take her elbow or offer her his hand as she descended a carriage. He sensed it in her every move, in the strange, subtle way she swayed beside him, careful to remain as close as possible to his body without actually brushing against him. In Lady Henley he saw his own self reflected—not the ideal of a man that she had built him up to be, but the desperate lover without release. The reality of their shared heartache sobered him, giving him some strength to try and fight off his admiration for Elizabeth and withstand Lady Henley's admiration for him. He wanted to love a woman and be loved by that woman, and as much as occasionally he wished that woman could be Lady Henley, he knew it was not. He did not deceive her, his resolve firming even as their friendship deepened, and to his confused chagrin, she would not relent.

The weeks near the sea slipped into a month. The days slipped by in a bittersweet haze and the nights in a restless struggle. And Fitzwilliam tried to find peace within himself, contentment in Georgiana's sisterly love, and balance in his relationship with Lady Henley.

~0~

Colonel Fitzwilliam was walking down the hall in his Weymouth residence when he heard it. Rain beat down outside, splashing loudly against the window panes and eaves of the house. Georgiana and her friends were in the drawing room playing some indoor game of hide and seek. Wanting to distract himself from their giggly diversions, he was headed to the billiard's room for some solitude. At first he thought the faint, scuffling sound was the strike of branches whipping against the house, for the young men and women had been commanded to remain in the public rooms, but then he heard the distinct soprano of a woman's voice and stopped suddenly. The voice grew louder, in urgency and pitch, and he raced toward the guest room. He threw open the door, and a scene of violence and shame panned out before him. Rage colored his vision; his battlefield instincts took over. He charged across the room and by the scruff of the neck hurled Lord Henley off Mrs. Stone.

The young earl stumbled backwards, smacking his back into the wall and Mrs. Stone clambered to cover herself up. Fitzwilliam ran his blazing gaze quickly over the lady to make sure her injuries did not demand immediate relief, and satisfied, he spun around to Lord Henley. The earl leaned against the wall, with his head titled slightly back and his skin sweaty. He watched Fitzwilliam march toward him, his young eyes hardened in defiance.

"You should have knocked, colonel," he said.

"You should be lucky I don't have my bayonet on me, milord, because if you are not gone from this house in the next minute, I will find it and run you through."

A smug sneer wrinkled over his red face, he glanced at Mrs. Stone and back at Fitzwilliam. "She is only the help."

Fitzwilliam's hand was around the youth's throat before he had time to think. He pushed him up against the wall, ignoring the gagging sputters and the hands straining to remove his hard grip. "And you are only human. If I ever hear of you looking at Mrs. Stone again, I will remind you of how fragile any human life can be. Now get out."

He released his hold and stood back. Panting, Lord Henley slumped down. He wiped the saliva from his mouth, and glaring, moved to the door. Fitzwilliam heard his angry mutter before he exited the room.

"No need, Lord Henley. I plan on telling your mother myself."

The colonel could not understand the low curses that followed, but he knew the earl had gone, hearing his quick shuffle fade down the hallway and the front door slam shut. Exhaling out some of the fury, he turned back around to Mrs. Stone. When he saw her trembling, weeping form crumpled into the corner, all the remaining anger fled from him. Hesitating, he first rushed to the door and closed it before he hurried to her side.

"Please," he said, kneeling in front of her and extending his hand. "Permit me to assist you to a chair, at least."

"No, thank you," she mumbled.

Powerless, he nodded but he did not move away. He could not. Her face was averted, still he noticed a spackle of violet on her cheek. The bodice of her dress was torn, and she kept her shaking hand over the ripped material. It was the quiet, controlled sobbing that really cut his heart. She should be able to scream as loudly as she wanted after such an ordeal.

For several minutes he knelt beside her, until finally her wracking shoulders shuddered to a halt and she cautiously glanced at him. Her pretty face was marred by tears and a bruise across her cheek, but she had no other marks that he could see. At least the physical damage would be easily hidden.

"You do not need to stay here."

"I will leave if you want me to, but I would like to stay if I can be of any help."

"Thank you."

She started to stand, and Fitzwilliam reached out to assist her, but she flinched at his light contact and he immediately withdrew. "Forgive me," he said. She shook her head at him, wobbling slightly, and walked slowly to the nearby arm chair. He handed her a small blanket from the bed and she wrapped it around her shoulders as a shawl.

"It is not you colonel. I just would rather not be…"

"You do not have to explain yourself, Mrs. Stone."

"You are very kind, sir."

Her grace in the face of such depravity touched him deeply. She should not need to be so polite, though. "I will leave you now. Stay here as long as you desire."

"Please don't go," she whispered as he began to turn away. "I don't want to be alone right now."

"Of course."

Fitzwilliam folded his hands and waited. The minutes edged by in complete silence. Finally she spoke, with her head bowed and her voice feeble.

"Lord Henley first…forced himself on me about a month ago. I thought he only desired to kiss me, and I did not discourage him in that, but then he…he wanted more than I had anticipated. I should not have let him so near me, but…I thought, despite his age, he was a worthy gentleman. He found opportunity to see me in private on one other occasion before today. I was determined to fight him off if it happened a third time." She raised her face. "Words cannot express how grateful I am that you came to my rescue, Colonel Fitzwilliam."

It took a moment for Fitzwilliam to respond. "I am only sorry that I did not rescue you from him earlier."

"It was never here before today. I think he grew more daring. It was always at his mother's house, when she was not at home and we were alone as friends."

For weeks now he had noted the low spirits of Mrs. Stone. Georgiana had also voiced her worry for her friend, convinced she was either sick in the heart or the body. Silently he berated himself for not listening to what his intuition had tried to tell him. Something could have been done so much sooner! Someone should have known!

"Was there no chaperone about? No one who might have put an end to this before?"

"I _am_ Miss Tuppets' chaperone, and Mrs. Annesley was…"

"Sleeping."

She nodded and Fitzwilliam decided right then it was time to hire a new lady's companion for Georgiana—even if that meant he would have to talk to Darcy. He did not blame Mrs. Annesley. _He _had pulled her reluctantly out of her retirement. The lady had only relented after several supplications from him, his mother, and Darcy. But she had served her purpose; Georgiana was well again. His gaze focused on Mrs. Stone. His fair cousin was well, but Mrs. Stone was not.

"What can I do for you Mrs. Stone? Name it and it will be done. Would you care for a glass of wine? A ride back to the Tuppets? A ride anywhere?"

"Back in time?" she sighed.

"If I could, I would."

She pressed her lips together, and smoothed her hair back out of her face. "I…were you genuine in your threat to inform her ladyship of her son's behavior?"

"I am, but I will not bring your name into the affair. Lady Henley should know what a scoundrel she has for a son. Do you think differently?"

"I do not know what I think at the moment. I have not known what to think for weeks."

Fitzwilliam took a step toward her, his voice rich with earnestness. "I swear to you madam, he will be punished for this. On my honor, I will do all in my power to ensure that this does not happen again by his hand. He will not touch you ever again and he will not walk away unscathed. I will see to that."

Suddenly her eyes walled up with fresh tears, and she sobbed, a great, dry howl that blew from her lips as a hoarse cry. "Yes, he will. Yes, he will. Men like him always do. I know you mean well colonel. I know you are sincere, but he will go on and live out his days as a wealthy and free man and I will be cursed. I will be cast out and forgotten."

"No, Mrs. Stone, you will not because I will not allow it. No one but us need ever know what happened here today. I am at your service in every way. And if you ask it of me, I will keep all things from Lady Henley, though I pray you do not ask that of me."

He wanted to go to her, to comfort her as he had comforted Georgiana in her time of need, but he remained standing, his feet fixed in their place and his gaze on her tragic pose. She was so young, too young for all this heartache and suffering. Her hands dropped away from her face, a face so blank, so forlorn he would never forget it for all his days. Suddenly he knelt before her, and this time, he did not restrain himself from taking her small hands into his, and this time, she did not pull away.

"I know it seems as though your life is over forever and that you are without hope, but this too shall pass. Allow me to go to Lady Henley. Allow me to do what I can for you. I will not tell her your identity. I will only tell her what her son has done. There must be some solace for you in his condemnation." Fitzwilliam leaned in ever so slightly. "Please, Anna, trust me."

He was amazed as he watched a small smile emerge on her lips. She nodded her head once and tugged her hands back into her lap. Fitzwilliam sighed and stood up.

"If you agree, I will go and tell Georgiana and the others that you fell down the stairs and that you are fine but resting. You may join us when you like. I am sure they are wondering where you have gone."

"Thank you, I think I would like to be alone now."

He bowed and walked to the door, but before his hand touched the knob, Mrs. Stone called his name and he did an immediate about-face. She was standing now, with her face turned toward the window. The rain still pummeled outside and water cascaded down the glass, blearing the ocean view.

"You cannot know this, but your cousin, Mr. Darcy, said the exact same thing to me when I lost my husband and my child. He asked me to trust him, which with many misgivings I did. I have been indebted to him ever since." She looked at Fitzwilliam. "I will be indebted to you even more."

Fitzwilliam bowed again, unable to speak. He exited the room and raced down the hallway. Georgiana and her other guests laughed carelessly in the large drawing room, the wind gusted outside, and his mind stuttered over the tragic irony that this Mrs. Stone was the lady who had been saved by Darcy years ago only to need saving by himself once more.

The colonel's heart was heavy, but his determination firm. Tonight he would go directly to Lady Henley. Tonight he would discover how deep her love for him ran, for he was going to ask her to believe him over whatever lies her only son might have already told her.

_Note: Thanks for the reviews. The next chapter will be on Tuesday, with D&E and CF&LH. Originally I had Wickham be the culprit, and the story was only told third-hand. But this isn't a pure Greek tragedy (despite some strains of that) and I wanted the action to take place en scène). Happy Weekend. Hats off to those who knew who Mrs. Stone was. _


	24. Chapter 24

_**Chapter 24: Four Knocks and a Requiem**_

Fitzwilliam did not have to go to Lady Henley that night, she came to him. Shortly after Georgiana had gone upstairs to bed, the countess stormed into the drawing room without waiting to be announced. Fitzwilliam was standing by the fireplace, stoking it with a poker, and started at her entrance.

"Lady Henley!"

"Call me Genviève or do not call me anything, Henry. I am tired of your formalities." She threw off her cloak, yanked off her gloves, and crossing her arms, turned to him. "I think we are passed all that, are we not?"

Her eyes glittered at him as two hardened jewels. Even from his distance, he could sense the anger rippling off her. Fitzwilliam carefully set down the poker and slowly approached her. His muscles tensed for a fight, his body for an assault. Something whispered in his ear that this was war.

"Have I done something to offend you, countess?"

"Do not pretend to be ignorant, Henry. My son told me what you did."

"Did his lordship tell you what he did?"

"My son is not the issue here." Her voice cracked and with it her steely expression. "How could you Fitzwilliam? How could you? After denying me now for months?"

Dumbstruck by the sudden turn of conversation Fitzwilliam could not immediately speak. Lady Henley took his silence as a confession. She screamed at him, a guttural cry of rage, and shoved him in the chest.

"I loved you! I have waited for you! It disgusts me how you used your false honor as a shield for your depraved duplicity! How dare you lead me on! And with Mrs. Stone of all people! You are in every way despicable."

The violence of her accusation riled Fitzwilliam's own anger and he at last found his tongue. Had not thought the young earl would recklessly bring Mrs. Stone's name into the light. He could not believe the dastardly lies that the boy had fed his mother, or how easily the countess had feasted on the bitter half-truths.

"You are mistaken, madam, in your understanding of what happened here today and to whom goes the blame. Your son—"

"My son is blameless. Peter told me how he found you with Mrs. Stone, and how you behaved when you saw him. Did you think you could threaten my son without any repercussions? Did you honestly believe I would forget my own blood before you? My love for you does not blind me. I am not some foolish maid who cannot set her own feelings aside."

"Your love for your son is blinding you right now. His lordship told you the truth it seems—apart from a few glaring and vicious details. It was not I who took advantage of Mrs. Stone. It was your son. And Mrs. Stone had no say in the matter. What was done to her was accomplished by force."

"That cannot be," the countess sneered.

"That is all it can be."

Lady Henley shook her head in disgust as the colonel leaned in, his voice dropping with gentle sincerity.

"I am sorry to have to cause you pain, but that is the truth. I had to bodily throw your son from off his victim and yes, even threaten him, when he would not immediately remove himself from the room."

She stared at him, no longer angry, no longer sad, but wholly incredulous. "Why do you persist in lying to me Henry? I cannot fathom it. For months my mind has been turned solely on you, my desires on whatever you desire. But your deceit is breaking my heart."

Fitzwilliam did not know what else to say. He would not call up Mrs. Stone to testify against her true assailant. It was wretched enough that her name had been spoken at all. He looked down at Lady Henley, his blue eyes pleading her to believe him.

"Have I ever lied to you Genviève? Have I ever once tried to deceive you about my intentions? I may not be all that you want me to be, but I am your friend. Your son did push himself on an innocent lady today, in my house—and to my horror it was not the first time he had done such a thing. It was not even the second time."

Suddenly the countess reached out for him. Her soft hands stroked his face and her eyes gleamed with tears. "You are my friend, dear Henry. And I am yours. I do not judge you; I only wish that you would be truthful."

The colonel had never encountered such willful ignorance—especially in a woman as perceptive as the countess.

"Genviève…" he began uncertainly.

"Henry," she finished.

Her bright eyes slid down his face and body, her hands trailing after her gaze. She pressed her face and palms against his chest. The heat of her breath burned through his shirtfront. He closed his eyes. There had always been an effortlessness to their physical attraction.

"I do not know why you are lying," she whispered. "I only know that you are. I know this because…because I knew a month ago that Peter had been with Mrs. Stone. They were not as discreet as they had hoped. I saw them exiting one of my guest rooms and neither was very _bien-habillé._ Peter would not seek her out again. He would not use brutal means, non plus. La chasse était déjà finie."

"I am not lying," he softly replied, trying to ignore the sweetness of her scent and the warmth of her nearness. "Your son targeted Mrs. Stone and has been hounding her ever since."

"I cannot believe it. What is Mrs. Stone? Who is she?" Her fingers danced lightly across his chest. "Peter only…he only seduced her in the first place because I encouraged him to enjoy her company so that it would discourage her from enjoying yours."

Fitzwilliam's eyes flew open, and fighting to control the rising wrath in his veins, gripped her wrists and thrust her away from him. Blindly he spun away from her. He did not know what he would do if he had to look her in the face, to see those beautiful, terrible eyes. This wasn't a hot and cold war, the rise and fall of battle. This was something so much more insidious. She was something so much more insidious.

"I knew you would be angry, but it is not what you think. I did not tell Peter to do anything but distract Mrs. Stone. She is no ingénue. She was once married. I'm sure Peter only responded to her enticement. You must have seen how she—"

"Enough!" Fitzwilliam cried, his back to the countess. "Enough! I cannot hear another word from you, madam."

"Henry," she pled. "Perhaps Peter did deceive me today. I know I do not want to think that you have shared something with Mrs. Stone that you will not give to me. But I cannot believe—no, I will not believe that Peter brutalized her. Perhaps she led him on. Perhaps she made him think she was more willing than she was. And if she did, if she promised him by her looks and words more than she was prepared to do, then it is not Peter's fault if passion carried him—"

"No more Genviève! I command you to speak no more!" Fitzwilliam faced her, madly clenching his fists. "I always suspected that there was some evil in you, but I never imagined it was as so great. You care for no one—"

"I care for you—"

"You care for no one but yourself."

She came to him, her gaze imploring him for understanding, for forgiveness. He put his hand out and turned away. "No, Lady Henley. I see now what I must do. Please, just go."

Without waiting for her to reply, he walked out of his own drawing room and raced up the stairs. He did not trust himself to remain in her presence and remain a gentleman.

~0~

The night was long for the colonel, as long as any night on the battlefield. And as during those midnight hours on the eve of war, he plotted out his tactic for survival. When there is no hope for victory, when nothing but loss of life looms ahead, the smart, compassionate commander chooses to retreat. Fitzwilliam was smart and he was compassionate. To stay in Weymouth was out of the question. To know that Mrs. Stone had been right—that the earl would merrily go about his business, untouched—was a blow to the colonel's confidence in the goodness of human nature. But so it must be for now. If Lord Henley was willing to say such lies about a man his mother respected and a gentleman in good standing, who knew what lengths he would go to tarnish the name of a penniless lady's companion. Methodically Fitzwilliam went over every possibility and by the rising of the sun, the red dawn soaking through the drapes and leaking into his bloodshot gaze, he had formulated an exit strategy.

To his relief, his plan was not met with much resistance. His greatest challenge, he had assumed, would be to convince Miss Tuppets that she desired to leave the sunny beaches of Weymouth for the isolation of her parent's estate. The task proved not only easy, but enlightening.

As early as possible the colonel left his house and called on the Tuppets. There were three members in the Tuppets family, but only one whose opinion held any sway. Mr. and Mrs. Tuppets had already been considered past their prime when to their delighted shock they had learned that after twenty years of marriage they were expecting a child. That child had been born, pampered, and grown into the boisterous, indomitable Miss Halora Tuppets. Her parents were at her beck and call. Whatever the young miss wanted, the young miss received. Fortunately for her senile, doting parents, she had been blessed with a kind disposition, an eagerness to please. And so, when the colonel cleverly proposed that the young women depart for the countryside a month earlier than they had originally planned, and Miss Tuppets had readily agreed, taking over the conversation and making it seem as if she had put forth the idea, the alteration in travel plans had effectually already taken place. He left with quickness in his step and looseness in his shoulders, his mood lightening even more from Miss Tuppets' departing comments.

"I'll give your compliments to Mrs. Stone, colonel. She'll be sorry to have missed you, but she was so tired after her fall yesterday that I ordered her to sleep in."

"I am sure she needs the rest."

"Aye, that she does," agreed Miss Tuppets. "But she promised she'll be down to visit the shops with me in the afternoon. I am in need of her companionship even more since our friend went away so suddenly."

"Your friend?"

"Why, yes. Lord Henley sent us an early note saying that his mother and he were returning to London due to some urgent business. They are gone already, I imagine."

Fitzwilliam bowed and sped out the door, breathing for the first time in a day. His next stop was at his own home. He relaxed even more at the thought. Only it was at home where he confronted his sole obstacle.

Naturally Mrs. Annesley was indifferent, even indifferent when Fitzwilliam gently informed her that her services would no longer be required once Georgiana left for Pemberley. He still needed to confirm with Darcy, but for all purposes, she was relieved of her employment. The old lady nodded, and yawning, asked if that meant she could return to her cottage at Matlock in time for the spring festival. He quickly answered in the affirmative, but he would be forced to negate that reply within a half an hour.

Mrs. Annesley's keep, his docile cousin, was the single snag in his plan. Georgiana flatly refused to go to Pemberley, even with the allure of the wedding ball. She vehemently objected to leaving her friends. Stubbornly she claimed that she knew something was gravely wrong with Mrs. Stone, and that she would not leave her side without first, discovering the source of her friend's discomfort and second, seeing if she could not relieve some of her suffering. Fitzwilliam was secretly impressed by his young ward's perspicuity into the heart of another person, but he still persisted in his demand. No amount of coercion or persuasion from her guardian prevailed upon her intractable determination, though. Nothing would shake her resolve.

At last, Fitzwilliam surrendered. After the ordeal of the last day, he did not have it in him to outmaneuver Georgiana. He knew the true source of Mrs. Stone's malaise and could not in good conscience deprive her of a person as caring and intuitive as his cousin. He even technically relented to her unintentionally precarious terms. Georgiana would remain with her friends, traveling with them to the Tuppets' estate. Mrs. Annesley would continue on as her companion, missing the spring festival. And, with a sting as painful as a blade in his back, the colonel would ostensibly be the one to travel to Pemberley, to congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Darcy on their marriage.

"For one of us must be there," Georgiana declared, smiling from ear to ear. "I promised them that and I ought not to go back on my word. William would never forgive us if we both did not attend, and it would hurt Elizabeth, too."

The colonel could only nod at this. He had lost this battle with his cousin, such a petty nothing in comparison to the real torment of Mrs. Stone's sorrows, but he still thought there might be a possibility of his escaping the outcome. To Matlock he would go first, and in the comforts of his childhood home, would officially decide whether he would make Georgiana a liar or himself a fool.

~0~

On the eve of the ball, Elizabeth sat in the large parlor with her husband. Silence crackled as loudly as the blazing hearth. The fire spewed embers and warmth into the chilly, noiseless room. Elizabeth absently stitched. Her deft fingers swept the needle in and out of the cloth and her mind brimmed with the busyness of all the preparations she would have to complete before tomorrow evening. Such thoughts saved her from stewing over how frustrated she was with her husband.

"I still cannot fathom Georgiana's absence for tomorrow evening," Darcy remarked, his voice stripped of interest. "She normally goes to any lengths to attend a ball."

"She writes she wishes to come, but, as you know from her earlier correspondence, she does not feel she can leave her friend. Apparently Mrs. Stone's spirits have taken a turn for the worse," Elizabeth replied with equal ennui, her needle not missing a stitch.

The conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun. For two days now they had done nothing except be at odds with one another. Little annoyances, the kind that crop up in every marriage, that might have been easily laughed at or looked over, were spiking into brief spats. Their exchanges were terse, and only spoken if absolutely necessary. In front of the staff they were barely cordial, and in private they were cold. Darcy had been the one to suddenly change, leaving Elizabeth feeling completely windswept a few days ago by his inexplicable coolness. At first she had tried to draw him out, but he seemed reluctant to open himself up to her. Confused she had attempted to be patient, to ignore his capricious tone, to excuse his insincerity. Men could be fickle. Was not her beloved, whimsical father proof of that?

After three days of living politely, however, the strain of always reacting so primly and properly to her husband's aloofness had vexed Elizabeth. She was not Jane after all, no matter how much she wanted to emulate her. The act of constantly turning the other cheek to his bland temper had quickly worn her down and the drama of pretending all was well had wound her up. Unfortunately she could not accuse Darcy of anything specific. He was distant, yes, and during the night he was absent, true, but what could she say to him? He sidestepped any pointed question and refused to acknowledge any filial rupture. So she had started to pattern her behavior after his, to mirror his diffidence, retreating inward when they were not openly engaging in an insipid fight. It had spoiled the planning of the ball for her and diluted the certainty of the declaration she had earlier determined to make to him tomorrow night.

Vulnerable and baffled Elizabeth longed for Jane, longed for her forbearance and her advice. Her sister's letters were always sources of joy and clarification for her; the anchors that ground her to her past and set her course for her future. And she wished she could somehow speak to Jane face to face, to ask her how she ought to approach her husband, when he seemed to be distancing himself from her bit by bit.

Elizabeth glanced up at Darcy. He stared past her at the wall, his long legs crossed and his hands folded tightly over his chest—a literal ball of nerves. It was too much for Elizabeth. "Oh! This is ridiculous!" she thought, "One of us must bend!" She stabbed her needle into the fabric and threw the cloth down into the basket.

"William," she said, exasperated. "Will you please tell me why you are bothered by me? How can I possibly apologize if I do not know the reason for your dissatisfaction?"

Darcy dragged his gaze to her, shifting in his chair and unwinding his arms. "I am only tired, Elizabeth."

"No, you are angry."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Am I? I am glad to learn that you have the capacity to decide what I am feeling, without the trouble of me actually telling you."

Elizabeth pursed her lips and steeled her patience. "I would happily hear your thoughts, sir."

"And I would happily speak them, if the need arose. You are anxious for the ball, I am sure. Perhaps that is the reason you are attributing a lack in my recent behavior. Do not fret, though, the ball will go off without a hitch."

"It is not the ball that worries me."

"No?"

"No, it is the person who is supposed to be by my side during the ball that worries me."

"I will assume you are referring to me—"

"Of course I am referring to you," she cried, throwing up her hands. "To whom else would I be referring?"

Darcy sighed, his dark eyes boring into her and his mouth tight. Finally he spoke, slowly and deliberately: "I am aware of the fact that this week has been not been the happiest of our marriage, but rest assured, I will be by your side tomorrow. If I have been inattentive to your feelings, I apologize. That has never been my intent. Naturally you have been preoccupied with the upcoming event. I can only pretend so much interest in a ball, though. Frankly I am dreading it. I have little inclination to feign anticipation. It is a necessary formality, but in general I despise these sorts of diversions— especially dancing."

Elizabeth slumped back into her chair and narrowed her eyes at him; defeated, once again, by his measured, monotone rebuff. Whatever he claimed, she knew it was more than mere dislike for dancing that had spurned him from her. It had to be. A man does not go from attentive husband and arduous lover to a practical stranger because he detests reels.

"Very well, William," she said, picking up her needle and thread. "You may keep your secrets."

"And you, my dear, may keep yours."

Elizabeth stared at him, but the venom that she had heard could not be seen in his blank expression, and she wondered if she had imagined it. Hurt, she bowed her head and resumed her needlework.

The rest of the evening passed away in an uneasy quiet, until rigidly, each retired to their separate chambers. A single, compulsory kiss on the cheek was their only interaction in front of her door. Elizabeth, hating her recent timidity, reached out to pull Darcy closer, to kiss him on the lips, but he gracefully intercepted her, grabbing her hand. He brushed his mouth over her wrist and muttered, "Until the morning, Elizabeth." And without another word, he strode down the hallway.

Elizabeth's flailing bravery could not compel her to chase after him. She raced into her room instead, and Darcy sped into his. Both relieved to give vent to their noisy thoughts; in the form of pacing for Elizabeth and drinking and pacing for Darcy. He had not given himself entirely over to the bottle, but recently on some nights, and this night especially, he allowed himself the sweet release from consciousness that comes from alcohol. Darcy knew he would not sleep otherwise, with Fitzwilliam probably only a short ride away from Pemberley, from his Elizabeth.

When Darcy had received his cousin's letter a few days ago, he had planned on informing Elizabeth right away, he had thought he could manage his fears. He had believed the jealousies festering in his heart were breaking apart, withering away as his relationship with Elizabeth blossomed into something beautiful and sure. Ignoring his qualms, he had sought her out in their beloved, messy haunt, but it had not been his wife that he had found. There had been a letter laying open on the sunken sofa, a letter from Jane to her sister. It was only the last page of the letter; the rest of it lost or tucked away somewhere else. It was a single sheet, a single paragraph, a single line that had ruined everything for him.

_"—oh, yes Lizzy, the colonel does sound like the dearest, bravest man. How fortunate that your heart has finally met its mate! Until July, Jane."_

Darcy had read and re-read the letter, had upended the room searching for the other pages, had torn a pillow apart and shredded a splintered picture frame. His efforts had been to no avail. The words had been branded into his mind, seared into his soul. He had seen only one interpretation and that had been all he had been able to see ever since. So he had turned inward. As he had done when his parents had died, as he had done when he had tried to forget Miss Bennet of Hertfordshire this last fall, he had thrown himself into a rigorous activity of work, of sport, and of reading during the day. And thirsty for his wife's love, he had drank the nights away. Tonight would be no different. For tomorrow guests would toast his happy nuptials, tenants would feast on his supposed felicity, and the man his wife actually loved would celebrate her marriage to his cousin—Fitzwilliam would unwittingly celebrate Darcy's greatest failure and his own greatest triumph.

_Note: Dum-dum-dum. And the ball is next chapter._


	25. Chapter 25

**_Chapter 25: An Uncivilized Practice_**

Darcy waited beside his wife on the gravel drive for the first of their guests to arrive. It was the late morning. The sun shined obliquely through the lingering fog and a light breeze rustled the trees. In his last letter, Lord Fitzwilliam had written that his family and he would arrive around the eleven o'clock hour. Darcy's uncle was never wrong about punctuality, to the point of being almost ridiculous about his timing. In general the Earl of Matlock was not a man open to mockery, but every person has his or her pet idiosyncrasies. So Elizabeth and Darcy stood, silent but for the ambient sounds of nature, keeping their eyes unwaveringly on the road. The facade of anticipation saved them from the trouble of pretending to be pleased with one another.

When Darcy recognized the equipage of his uncle careen over a distant slope, he decided it was at last time that he should inform his wife of the other person coming to their door. He glanced at his Elizabeth. The sun flecked her hair with auburn tinsel and her skin glowed in the misty light. Her beauty did little to soften his heart. He exhaled tiredly, the obligation heavy on his chest.

"Fitzwilliam is traveling with my aunt and uncle," he announced without preamble. "I expect he is in the carriage with them."

Elizabeth's eye grew wide, her cheeks flared with color, and she stammered, "How…how long have you known?"

"About a week."

She stared at him with open frustration, and then abruptly her expression softened, her gaze warming from suspicion to hopeful scrutiny. "I see," she said simply, turning back toward the road. Darcy looked also back toward the approaching carriage, the ground beneath his feet even less sure. Now was not the moment for indulgence or indecision, though. There was a game of charades to play, a game he was loathe to engage in for amusement and even loather to engage in for appearances.

Within another hushed minute, the Fitzwilliam carriage had trundled up the path and his relatives were before him. The earl was a tall gentleman, broad of shoulders and square of chest. A shocking streak of gray was all that remained of his once bushy hair. He had a quick smile and bright, happy eyes. Lady Fitzwilliam resembled Darcy's mother—slender and fair ladies whose faces bore the marks of age with grace.

Darcy bowed to his aunt and uncle, they bowed. Happy nothings were spoken. Darcy shook his uncle's hand and kissed his aunt's cheek, formally and warmly welcoming them to Pemberley. They turned to Elizabeth next, parting the way, and Fitzwilliam was suddenly in Darcy's view. The colonel was hanging back, with his heels snapped together and his shoulders squared. He wore plain clothes, but no matter his attire, he always carried a soldier's bearing. Too many thoughts whirred behind Darcy's dark expression, too many impulses without the potential for execution tingled on the tips of his limbs. If things were not according to his wishes, they would be on his terms.

"Henry," Darcy said.

"Henry?"

"We are brothers, are we not? And it has been too long since I had the pleasure of welcoming so many Fitzwilliams to Pemberley. Call it an attack of sudden sentimentality or nostalgia for when we were boys." Darcy turned to Elizabeth, pulling her away from his aunt and uncle. "Dear, you have not yet welcomed Henry, or as you know him, Colonel Fitzwilliam."

Neither his wife nor her lover moved or said a word—though their expressions teemed with emotion. Elizabeth cast Darcy a look of reproach; Fitzwilliam one of fatigue. It was the colonel who recovered first.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Darcy."

"And you colonel."

"Please call me Fitzwilliam, or if you insist, as your husband seems to, call me Henry."

"You do not like the name Henry?"

"I prefer others—that is all."

"Do you often prefer things which are not your own?" Darcy asked, his voice light.

The grin—a touch too admiring for Darcy's liking—fell off from Fitzwilliam's face. Something sharp and unpleasant thickened between the two gentlemen. Both Darcy and Fitzwilliam took the measure of the other, in a way they never had before. Elizabeth stepped forward and snapped the tension, her pleasant voice drowning out the roaring in Darcy's ears. She suggested they all go into the house and without a sideward glance at him, led their guests into the house.

Darcy lagged behind, listening to the earl repeat Phillip and Mariah's regrets for missing the ball. A dusting of rose peppered the side of Elizabeth's cheek and she made some congratulatory remark on the arrival of a new Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth and Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam disappeared into the dark of the house, but his cousin halted at the threshold. When Darcy came near enough, he muttered, "You must be very nostalgic, _William_—you are behaving just like a child would."

Darcy paused and glanced at his cousin, his cool fleckless. "Would you rather I behave like a gentleman? I don't think it would end well for you."

Fitzwilliam was silent as Darcy pushed past him, bumping his shoulder into him.

~0~

Darcy paced his study, a drink in one hand and a letter in the other. The post had just arrived and with it the crowing bitter touch to his bitter mood. The Gardiners would be unable to attend. Some business demanded that Elizabeth's uncle unexpectedly remain in town, but her aunt politely requested to take advantage of Darcy's gracious offer in the summer while they toured the lakes. Darcy had read the letter, on the Pemberley steps before the post-rider's horse's dust had settled, and had immediately excused himself from the fishing outing that his uncle, cousin, and a few neighborhood gentlemen were on the point of embarking on. Reluctant to pass too much time alongside Fitzwilliam, it had not been a loss to claim a matter of business required his full and prompt attention. The opportunity to sequester him away for all the afternoon was the only good to come from such bad news.

Darcy's grand surprise had turned into nothing, his gesture of new beginnings and renewed impressions gone, gone with the same blinking speed as the hope that had only a week ago burned so brightly. Jealousy had blinded him from everything else. Before Elizabeth, Darcy had never known jealousy. Why would a man of his position and standing, his wealth and connections ever be jealous? It was a new sensation, and not a welcome one. Swilling down the rest of his drink, he crumpled the letter and threw it into the grate.

~0~

The guests were already arriving when Darcy finally joined Elizabeth in the receiving line. She looked lovely, a graceful queen among bumbling heathens. The elaborate decorations, the bouquets of flowers, and the gleaming lights had enhanced the room and his wife's beauty with the same iridescent softness.

He slipped in beside her, the floral scent of her perfumed hair filling up his senses, and she threw him a withering eye. She said nothing, though, smiling at and charming the mulling throng. For once, Darcy was glad of the distracting crowd. He had no better excuse for his tardiness than that he had no desire to be where he was. He had not meant to arrive late, but in trying to distract himself from this event, had thrown himself into estate business and had successfully managed to forget the time. The half-empty decanter of port beside his stacks of letters had not helped his attentiveness, either.

At last, Darcy's faithful valet had interrupted his frenetic diligence, saying that the first guests were at that moment coming up the drive. Bing knew Darcy was struggling, and guessing the reason for it—servants always more aware than unaware—had tried to give the master of Pemberley as long as possible before making him dress. Except the well-meaning valet's kind intentions had been foiled by his own fatigue. He had managed to fall asleep standing up and only the sound of carriages had startled him awake.

To the incoming guests, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy appeared to be a delightful, handsome couple. All glowed in their praise of Elizabeth. How her animation gave Darcy that extra light he had been lacking since losing his parents, that flicker of warmth that had ever been missing from his sober nature. When the newly-married couple led the way through the ballroom to open the dancing, none of the neighbors or tenants guessed that what they mistook for poise and excitement were tension and anger. And the man who did notice was not fool enough to acknowledge it.

The music swelled in the air. The patter of feet pounded merrily along the floorboards. Whispers and laughs echoed up in to the corner of the cavernous ballroom. But for the entire first set of the dance the host and hostess of the ball moved and swayed and twirled silently, almost stealthily amidst the joyous harmonies of revelry.

"I was so glad you decided to attend tonight, sir," Elizabeth clipped, none of that softness from the receiving line in her expression or touch. "Although from the smell of your breath you were celebrating, copiously, on your own."

He watched her chest rock and her nostrils distend. His head spun, from drink and desire and rage. But he knew he was drunken more from his emotions than from his port. The attack on his character, after the attack on his heart was too much.

"Do not pretend to anticipate my presence, or enjoy my company when I know you feel neither. Deceit does not become you, my dear."

Elizabeth balked at him, her cheeks flushing red so quickly that it seemed his words had physically slapped her. But she was not one to withhold her tongue when angry. "Just as neglect does not suit you, sir. If you do not care for my opinion, I know you care for what you would have others think of the Darcy name. Do you have a reason for your tardiness, apart from the obvious?"

"I am not dry, Elizabeth but nor am I drenched. I had important matters to attend to and I quite mistook the time. I am here, and will be by your side, my devoted wife, for the remainder of the evening."

"Do not trouble yourself on my account. You need only to dance another set with me at the end of the ball, and of course, we will have to dine next to each other, but other than that you can do as you please."

"Thank you for your instruction, however, I would rather stay by your side. I do not wish to embarrass you again, and as you have correctly stated, I do have family pride to consider. I would not wish you to embarrass me. I have seen your family's comportment at balls before."

The quadrille shifted. They blindly reached for strangers' hands, blindly stared at strangers' faces and blindly spun back to one another. When Darcy took his wife's hand back into his, her fingers trembled and the heat of her skin seeped through both her gloves and his. Yet it was the fire in her eyes that really burned him. He knew he should not be saying these things—not here, not now—but the alcohol raced in his veins and had commandeered some of his self-possession. The hot condemnation in her face sobered him slightly, though. He wanted her love and admiration, and now he was losing whatever little respect she might have felt for him.

The set was ended and, despite what Darcy had said, they wasted no time in parting company. Neither was pleased by their dance performance. Darcy watched his wife sweep off in the other direction. She flitted this way and that, all ease and smiles. Her masked fury infused her fine eyes with a bewitching glitter. Other matrons clambered around her, their satins and chiffons blurring the sheen of her silk and their pallid faces and dull hues hiding her from his line of sight.

A flash of red caught his eye and Darcy glowered imperiously at the colonel. He had managed to avoid his cousin thus far. Now he could not avert his gaze. In Fitzwilliam's letter announcing his imminent attendance at the ball he had alleged to want to put aside whatever acrimony might exist between them.

_"I cannot deny what Lady Henley implied the other month. I will not bore you with my struggles, but I hope you may put more faith into our relationship than my ability or wish to jeopardize that relationship. We have ever been as similar in the turn of our hearts as we have been dissimilar in our personalities and appearances. It was bound to happen that at some point in our lives we would fall for the same woman. But as with most other things, you have won the day. I do not write this to incite your wrath or disturb your rightful enjoyment in your marriage, only to emphasize that my wishes for your felicity are as true as they have always been. My happiness is still and ever will be your happiness."_

Darcy's sharp eyes tracked his cousin's progress down the floor with his aunt. Fitzwilliam's actions at Pemberley had already disproved the veracity of his claim. He had nearly flirted with Elizabeth, done nothing to make amends—whatever amends that might be—and even chided Darcy under the eaves of his own front door. The last vestiges of hope for Darcy, the last morsels of doubt in his wife's betrayal and his cousin's perfidy had hinged on Fitzwilliam's conduct once here. And in Darcy's mind, the colonel's complete lack of compunction had shut the door for good on the possible inaccuracy of his interpretation of Jane's words to her sister. It had not only shut the door, it had effectually slammed it.

Darcy was so caught up in watching the son and the mother, he did not notice when the father approached him, until smacking him jovially on the back, Lord Fitzwilliam asked him.

"How is connubial felicity, Darcy?"

The earl's speech was slightly slurred and he teetered as a top losing speed. Apart from punctuality, Darcy's uncle was as jolly as his Aunt Catherine was severe. Nothing ever seemed to bother Lord Fitzwilliam and even those closest to him could not tell if that was from studied naïveté or actual ignorance. His uncle hiccupped, winking at a farmer's daughter who skittered by, and waited for his nephew's reply.

"It is as it is to be expected," Darcy said. "But I am sure you would know enough of that. Her ladyship and you seem to have been designed for each other."

"Yes, that is truer than you know. We were designed for each other, and had little say in the designation of our fates."

Darcy's brow wrinkled up. "Your marriage was arranged?"

"It took us a few fair years to learn how to, shall we say, dance together with grace and ease. But, the practice was well worth it. Her ladyship gives me great joy." The earl's voice cleared of some of its heaviness and he shot Darcy a penetrating look. "And so it is, I think, with even marriages of choice. It takes time to perfect the marriage dance in any situation."

Lord Fitzwilliam hiccupped again and sauntered off, leaving his nephew to contemplate over what he had said.

Soon Darcy was seeking out Elizabeth. If the earl had noticed their antagonism, with him fully in his cups, surely every one else would notice them within the hour. Childish he might have been behaving, but even children have a sense of pride. Darcy would not risk a scandal. It would not do to appear discontented. He only hoped he could salvage the evening. Luckily, Elizabeth seemed to feel the same way.

As he walked up to her, the yards of frills and lace parting a path to her side, she offered him a winning smile and a welcome hand. Elizabeth laughed then, as some woman leaned over and muttered something into her ear. If he had not felt the stiffness of her muscles or seen the quiver of her lips he would never have known the effort behind the veneer of delight. The facility with which they fell into the role of a happily married couple nagged at him. "Perhaps that is some of the source of our discord," he mused, leading her into the dining hall. "We neither perform for strangers, and for whatever reason, we still both consider the other a partial stranger."

The remainder of the night they both continued to act well their parts, though. Darcy danced as much as he ever had, and much more than he had ever liked. The great master of Pemberley bowed and reeled with plebian and peer alike. It was expected. It was his duty. It was unavoidable.

Elizabeth also danced with a number of men: the earl, a tenant, a footman, and while Darcy watched from afar, his aunt's slender arm slung lightly through his elbow, Fitzwilliam. He watched his uncle prod his cousin, watched the blush on Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth's cheeks, could almost read their minds from across the room, and intuit what their rapid lips were saying—their polite refusals, the earl's obstinate insistence, and finally their joint capitulation. For a quarter hour as he danced with his aunt, he could not catch a glimpse of them, though his eyes were vigilantly scanning the crowd. His inability to study them was infuriating. Ignorance was not bliss—it was madness.

Unsurprisingly Lady Fitzwilliam fatigued after only a short time and Darcy escorted her back to her husband. Standing against the wall he finally had an unobstructed vantage point from which to observe his wife and her heart's match interact. The recollection of Jane's words stung him. The sting did not go away. Perhaps ignorance was not bliss but it was not, he discovered, torture, either: knowing was. A fresh, acute prickle of pain pierced him every time Elizabeth smiled at something Fitzwilliam said, every time their hands touched, every time their laughter spilled into the air and above the noise—each and every time it was clear that whatever she had sworn to him she had preferred his cousin—that she did still.

The good mood he had worked hard to present since his own dance with Elizabeth evaporated. He stole through the crowd, grateful that the next set was the final one and reserved exclusively for married couples. Calling forth that well of social reserve, he whisked his wife into his arms and away from his cousin's embrace. Fitzwilliam muttered something, which Darcy could not hear and which he knew he should not ask to be repeated if he were to stay calm. He hardly waited for the strains of music to rise again before pulling her near him. He would wait to surrender to his fury. He would wait to show his temper until after the dance. He would not wait much longer, though.

The silences in their marriage had become too deafening. No more, he thought with possessive satisfaction, as he danced with his wife down the aisle. Somehow Darcy kept up a stilted conversation on the ball, the guests, and the food, on everything but what was really going through his mind and what he longed to say. Unbeknownst to him, Elizabeth was doing the same.

_Note: Sorry for not getting this up on Thursday. Thanks for the reviews. And yes to JAC…the talk is coming next chapter. _


	26. Chapter 26

**_Chapter 26: Love is a Sickness_**

Elizabeth was sitting up in her bed when she heard the knock at her door. But for the small portion where she sat, the sheets were untouched, the bed still made. She ran her fingers lightly over the cool, stretched linens, wondering how to begin things with her husband. Would the tangy stench of alcohol pepper his breath? Would that hard, bitter gleam darken his face? Would she know him at all—or would he be the brooding shadow of the past week?

The knocking became more insistent. Her heart raced, even as her body stilled. Would he come in whether or not she asked him to? Flattening her palms against the sheets, her eyes fluttering downward as a prayer blew from her lips she called for him to enter. The latch clicked, the door swung open, and the tall, elegant outline of her husband loomed before her. Her wide gaze took in everything: the glass of port in his hand, the cold glitter in his gaze, the paleness of his cheeks. The lamp beside her flickered, as if the hostility rolling off her husband had doused the flame with the same chill that had doused her heart.

Without a greeting, Darcy swept into the room and swiftly shut the door behind him. He strolled toward her, taking a long drink from his glass and watching her from over the rim. Elizabeth's mouth suddenly grew dry. Her mind reeled. Her thoughts sodden with trepidation. She had never been alone with an intoxicated man, never been at the mercy of a gentleman whose manners and control were subjugated to the mistress of drink. Unknowingly she sank back into her pillows, shifting away from this unknown, unpredictable version of her husband.

Darcy set his glass on the table beside her and stared down at her. Some of that unnerving glassiness faded from his gaze. He spoke, his voice laced with detached sophistication, "Forgive me for interrupting your solitude."

"You are always welcome," she quietly replied.

"Am I?"

She sought in his face amusement, and finding none, poured as much sincerity into her voice as she possibly could. "Of course, you are always welcome."

"Now we both know that is not true."

"But it is true, William."

His expression hardened and he leaned down, his sharp breath blasting across her face. "I asked you earlier this evening to forgo polite pretenses, Elizabeth. I find them insulting, and belittling of your character. I am in no mood for artificial flatteries."

"What does it signify what your mood is?" She shot her eyes to the glass on the table. "You are not master of your own mood."

Darcy eased back from her, an unpleasant grin on his lips. He picked up the half-empty glass and swilled the amber liquid around with a limp wrist.

"In a way, I should be grateful for how things have turned out for me. All my life I have done exactly what I was expected to do. I never had any wild oats to sow. I never had to reap the grains of my misdeeds or sort the tares from the wheat. I was supposed to be an upstanding gentleman, a dutiful son, an attentive brother, a generous landowner—etcetera and etcetera. But you have taught me that no matter what I do, there are things beyond my control. Sometimes you sow the good, and you will still unavoidably reap the bad. So what is the point, I ask you? You enjoy philosophical dilemmas, do you not? What is the purpose of following all the rules and denying myself of simple pleasures, if in the end it all comes to naught? If in the end, it doesn't matter what I do?" He shrugged at her and raised the glass to his lips, muttering, "You already think I'm a drunkard, so why not become one?"

With a quick shake of the head, he threw back the glass and downed the rest of the drink. The cup thudded hollowly when he dropped it back onto the table. His disturbing smirk surfaced once again.

Elizabeth remained silent, trying to think of a way to reach out to her visibly jaded husband. Earlier this morning when he had informed her, in that hollow aside, that the colonel was coming to Pemberley she had finally been able piece together the cause behind his odd, jagged behavior this past week. She had wanted to appease him then, but before she had been able to articulate something—Fitzwilliam had arrived. And she would not soon forget what had transpired, or the bite in her husband's tone. All day long she had mulled over how to smooth Darcy's temper, to bolster his confidence in their relationship, and put to rest his pangs of jealousy, but he had been absent from her side, absent from everyone. The lonely day had dragged on, her heart eager for the moment when at the ball, somehow things would be better, somehow in the throes of their pretend celebration, true felicity would rise up, and she would be able to tell him how she felt. But when at long last he had finally shown up at the ball, he had reeked of drink and boiled over with spite. Every glance he had bestowed upon her, every word he had uttered, had been drenched in contempt, and no matter his assertion, saturated with port.

And now this—and now to all else—he stood before her, unrepentant of his uncharacteristic insobriety and touting a lifestyle of bacchanal. She wanted to share with him her joy, to confess her love, but with him swaying before, that sneer on his face, she could not. Her words would sound cheap now, cheap and false. Never before had she wanted so desperately to say something. Never before had she been at such a loss to say anything.

"Before I go," Darcy said, drawing her back from her blind uncertainty, his guarded gaze sliding over her. "There is one matter I would like to discuss with you."

"Yes? Whatever it is, please ask."

"Very well—when did you first discover that you had met your heart's match in my cousin? Was it a slow process, like when I fell in love with you? For I confess, I was already in the middle of it before I became aware. Or was it all of a sudden for you? I am curious of the date, if you can recall it, because it would help me some if I knew whether you ever had any real affection for me, or if you were just that talented at wooing me and petting my ego once we arrived at Pemberley?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think the meaning can be confused. I mean when did you fall in love with Fitzwilliam? Was it before our marriage, and perhaps you were not yet cognizant of it? Or perhaps you fought to suppress it? Or perhaps you fell in love with him whilst reading Georgiana's praises about him? You must be able to give me some idea. That is a paltry request of courtesy. As your husband, I could demand much more."

Elizabeth knew not how to respond. Straining to understand him, she clenched her fingers, only to feel the little morsels of comprehension slip through her grasp. She had never been good at understanding Darcy, and despite their weeks together, tonight his words fell on her mind as a foreign tongue would.

"With all my heart, William, I have no idea why you are asking me these things. I knew you were jealous, but I have told you again and again that I never loved—"

His cold voice cut through her denial and his eyes sparked with rage.

"I read Jane's letter, Elizabeth."

"Jane's letter? What letter?"

"Don't play me for a fool. Her letter—her letter wherein she compliments Fitzwilliam as the bravest of men and then finishes her glowing pronouncement by congratulating you on having met your heart's match in him!"

Elizabeth had yet to move from her bed, but this most direct and bitter allegation was too much for her. She yanked off the covers and abruptly stood up, forcing Darcy to stagger back. Her indecision and trepidation were all but forgotten. Fury could do that to a woman as easily as it could to a man. She wrapped her arms around her chest, bracing herself for the storm, and said in a low voice, "You are gravely mistaken William."

"There is no mistake, madam. I know what I read. Ink cannot be erased from paper, nor those words from my mind."

"I will repeat: you are mistaken—and permit me to explain the precise number of your current mistaken premises."

"I need not hear your calculations on my faults, yet again Elizabeth. I am well aware of how lacking I am in your estimation."

"First," she said, heedless of his remark, "apart from your discourteous behavior for the past week, culminating in your reprehensible conduct tonight—I had begun to believe that you had underwent a change of heart since our arrival in Derbyshire, or at least, the change of scenery had softened your heart, and mine. You were not the man I had known in Hertfordshire. You were thoughtful and kind, and rarely stood upon ceremony with those under your keep. Now I do not know what is true—was the alteration a passing fancy or is this extraordinary break from decency into drunkenness revealing of your true nature?"

She saw Darcy start at this, but breathlessly continued on: "Second, you continue to attack the character of my family! How could you ever think that Jane would encourage me to indulge in an illicit affair—"

"Really Elizabeth, be fair," Darcy interrupted, recovering. "I never presumed Jane was sympathetic of infidelity on your part. I only believed she was supportive of your predicament and in her usual way, attempting to put a dismal situation in the best possible light."

"Well, how generous of you, William, to impugn my sister with worldliness and virtue in the same breath."

"It is generous. I could have called her, and you, much worse."

"I…I cannot continue speaking with you if you insist on acting as though we were passing strangers," Elizabeth stammered at him, panting from shock. "I must tell you how sorry, how abominably sorry I am for whatever I have done to make you treat me with so little regard."

For a moment it looked as though his rage was giving way to sadness, his fleeting expression of pitiable hurt almost compelled Elizabeth to just tell him the whole truth now instead of fearing the outcome. But the sorrow blinked once and died. Darcy's face clamped down with a severe hauteur.

"What did you expect Elizabeth?"

"I don't know—civility at least, an apology, at best."

"Apology? What possible apology could you expect from me?" He laughed and a chill trickled down Elizabeth's spine. "You were the one who insisted I stop treating you as a passing stranger. Passing stranger. You can turn a phrase, can you not, my dear?"

"It is not my intention to be clever now, but clear."

"I would expect nothing less," he said, raking his eyes carelessly down her figure. "Do you know your conversation was what drew me to you in the first place? It was what drew me to begin a real courtship with you—though of course, I realize now how one-sided that courtship was. How I adored your way with words! How you never lacked a witty observation nor shied away from verbally sparing with me should you disagree! What artful dislike I mistook for playful flirtation!"

His throat rumbled again with that same bitter laugh; that icy tingle shivered again over her skin. Smiling Darcy bent his head toward her and went on: "Of course, Henry also enjoyed your company and conversation. I was jealous of how well you two talked that night at Rosings. I decided then and there, as you sat laughing with him; that I would die of jealousy if I ever let another man win your hand, steal your heart. I battled all my demons for you—my pride, my family obligations, my opinion of your family and connections—and all for what? Yes, I won your hand, but not your heart. And now, it seems, Henry has both your heart and your affection. No, do not protest and claim you have never physically breached the binds of marriage. I know that. But I watched you dance with him tonight. I saw how you laughed with him, how effortlessly you smiled at and spoke to him. I noticed the way your body curved around his, for just a moment even, in a way it has never moved toward me, that confirmed to me how easy it is for you to love him. And that, we know, is more than you can say about me."

Darcy finished and spun away, heading toward the door. Elizabeth stared after him. The words bubbled up like a bittersweet froth. "I will finish as I began, William, and tell you that you are gravely mistaken. I love you, not your cousin."

She had said it. She had told him that she loved him. There had been nothing in his dark face that had encouraged her, no quiver of love that had induced her to speak. But she had been unable to control it, unable to stop it. Seething still with injured wrath, whirring with energy, it was hard to go on. But she must go on, no matter the consequence. It could be delayed no longer. This could go no further. She shook back her hair, her spine straight her and her breath hot. Darcy had halted and her gaze was transfixed on his tall, slender back.

"I do not know for certain to which letter you were referring earlier, but I believe it is the one that contains Jane's reply in regard to an incident involving Georgiana—a silly, trifling matter where the colonel had saved your sister from a tidal wave of no more than three inches. I thought Jane would enjoy the anecdote. But more so, it was the letter that contained her reply to my confession that I was, to my delighted astonishment, falling for my husband."

His back was still to her, and Elizabeth could no longer withstand the rebuff. "William, won't you please look at me? I am at your mercy."

She heard him exhale a long sigh and watched him slowly turn back around. "I am as ever at your mercy, Elizabeth," he whispered. "I have been since the moment you bewitched me at Netherfield."

His dark eyes searched her face, tracing her features with a finite, intimate longing. Elizabeth colored under his tender scrutiny and folded her arms more tightly against her chest, kneading her fingers into her arms for release.

"Is this a dream?" he asked.

"No."

"You love me?"

"Yes."

Trembling she approached her husband. When she was within reach of him, hesitant to close the remaining gap, Darcy suddenly stopped her, placing rigidly straight arms on her shoulders and keeping her an arm's length away.

"Why did you wait until now to tell me?"

Her mind was a blur of distorted designs and unfinished sentences. Her heart ached with the pain of this night. Darcy's eyes ignited with warmth. The appearance of something softer in his gaze spurred her to answer.

"Because I was foolish."

Darcy folded her into his arms. She could hear the frantic pounding of his heart and feel the heat of his body. "So have we all been," he said, resting his cheek on the top of her head, his breath hot on her scalp. "So have we all been."

For a long time they stood in this pose, their limbs interlocked and their lips closed, listening to the hushed midnight hour and counting the minutes by the rise and fall of each other's breath.

Note: So thanks for the reviews. I appreciate them. I am sorry if people still don't like this Lizzy. I don't think she's cruel, just confused. I also don't think they would have just immediately forgiven one another. This will take some time.


	27. Chapter 27

_New Note: I have rearranged so many things in this plot that it is taking me more planning to figure out how to proceed from this point on. Chapter 29 is better planned out that Chapter 28. If I can get my ducks in line, I'll post it by Tuesday. Sorry that I have only posted two chapters the last two weeks. But the story should be done in the next 5- 6 chapters.  
_

_Thanks for your reviews! Chapter 28 does deal with why Elizabeth was crying, and it is mainly her POV. (I think...as I wrote, it's not coming together very quickly.)_

**_Chapter 27: The Condition of Man is a Condition of War_**

How had it come to this! The colonel walked aimlessly around Pemberley's paths, his arms folded behind his back and his head bowed, analyzing again how he might have avoided the debacle of last night. Once arriving home to Matlock, he had tried every tactical maneuver he had learned on the battlefield to avoid attending his cousin's ball, only to be rebuffed by the superior societal maneuvering of his mother. She had been well, finally, and in her good health and brighter spirits had been a frighteningly endearing force. Lady Fitzwilliam was so often sick, how could he deny her the simple pleasure of seeing him move about society? No matter his age or experience, a son cannot so easily deny his mother the fulfillment of such a wish. But his mother's innocent, obstinate desires had turned into her son's greatest regret.

The tender feelings that had been aroused last night, as for the first time Fitzwilliam had held Elizabeth in his arms, her slender gloved hands encased in his large ones, her light, supple figure briefly pressed close to his, continued to disrupt his calm, daggers in his peace. It reminded him of that jolting instant when he had spotted Elizabeth from afar at the theater, of that night when she had sat beside him whilst dining at Philip's, her skirts occasionally brushing tantalizingly against his leg underneath the table, of the hour he had watched her swear before friends, family and God, her devotion to his cousin. That day as he had watched the wedding carriage drive away, watched the slumped figure of Mr. Bennet retreating into his cold home, Fitzwilliam had seen his own feelings manifested in that one gesture, personified in none other then Elizabeth's lonely father. At that moment, how he had wished he could show his heart's true feelings! How he had envied Mr. Bennet—envied the freedom with which he had been able to expose the blow he had suffered from the loss of his favorite daughter.

Fitzwilliam shook his head, stopping his wandering feet on the dirt path, the swell of songbirds and sway of spring surrounding him. He longed for the return of his happy spirits. They had almost been within his grasp at the seaside—and then Lord and Lady Henley had happened, Mrs. Stone's misery had been discovered. Sick in the heart from those events, he had spent the last couple weeks vacillating between abject misery and raging fury. His mother and father had noticed, and attributed his alteration in spirits to the loss of company, doubling their efforts to persuade him to come to Pemberley.

Change—that is what he needed: a change of place, of perspective, of heart. Almost he was tempted to ride to the Home Office to see if there was a post available in some distant land, some place far enough away from ever seeing Darcy with Elizabeth again, or possibly running into Lady Henley. The New World never sounded so appealing when his own world had grown so cold and forlorn.

He rubbed his tired eyes, lifted his tired legs, and began walking. "I shall conquer this," he vowed to himself, clenching his fists and narrowing his gaze. "I shall be whole again." His mind ticked off all the places he could go to, back to the coast, somewhere on the continent, up north to some friends, and finally to the Tuppets' estate. The invitation had been extended. His trunks were already packed, and could be sent after him. If he left this morning he could make it there before supper. Something blue caught his eye just then, Fitzwilliam turned and stuttered to a halt. Draped in the light of the clear morning sun, her blue cloak fluttering in the warm breeze stood Elizabeth, her pale, pretty face streaked with tears.

~0~

Red light scattered across Darcy's vision. A pain sliced through his body, starting at his crown, descending down into his neck, and ending in a nauseous knot in his stomach. He unstuck his heavy lids, the weight of a headache on them. Blearily he blinked at his surroundings—the lace curtains, the mauve lamps, the satin bed covers. Darcy's stomach stirred at the sight, his memory did too: the drunken ramblings, the blurry images of her face and the heart-clenching truth that she loved him.

He heaved himself up, clutching at his temples and holding his abdomen. He stared down at his rumpled formal attire. The events of last night continued to trickle back to him; the last foggy image to flash by was him holding Elizabeth in his arms, standing up. He must have passed out shortly thereafter. The other memories of what had transpired, what words had been spoken, what venom had been spewed, were vague, the hair on his tongue. And apart from the haziness of Elizabeth's declaration, he did not mind the forgetfulness. If possible he would forever remove from his mind all of yesterday, all of yester week.

A shaft of light split through the curtain and beamed into Darcy's face. He shielded his eyes as the sunlight stabbed at his eyes. He was grateful for the interruption from useless musings, even if it came with a price. He squinted at the wall and pressed his palm deeper against his churning gut. He had no idea what time it was, but hoped that his relations were still be in bed, recovering from last night's late festivities. A real bath, fresh clothes, and a pail of coffee and then he would seek out his wife.

Darcy was not one prone to long bouts of self-reflection or excessive regrets. He felt he had already spent too much time alone in a room, alone with his unpleasant thoughts. His mind and body still felt the ill-effects of last night's descent into the disgraceful. He despised others for abandoning their judgment to drink, and yet, last night he had done exactly that. He rose from his bed, slipped out into the hall, and called for Bing.

Soon he was washed, dressed, and ready for the day. His sluggishness excited by a pitcher of coffee. He stood before the mirror in his chambers and started at his reflection: the perfect picture of a gentleman. He wished for the man before him in the looking glass to match the person within. For weeks he had been trying to become a man that Elizabeth could admire, respect, and of course, love. He could hardly believe that she did. She loved him—he tried to speak the words, to hear them for himself, but he could not. His throat was too parched. And for the first time, a strange, cold realization struck him: Love him she may, but love was not enough. Love was only the beginning.

Jealousy had made him mad, but he believed it had not entirely blinded him. Some things had been glaringly brightened—the increase in light compensating for the increase in darkness. There had been something there between his cousin and his bride, something that had never been between himself and Elizabeth. With the fear of her treachery gone, he could see things in a new light. Perhaps that slight tenderness he had watched in Elizabeth's response to Henry as they had danced had been nothing more than the natural, generous affection his wife seemed to feel for any friend. Friend. Had she ever considered him a friend? Was that even possible now?

Darcy thought of the man who had always been a friend to him, of the man he had not wanted to think of as a friend for weeks now. He missed his cousin—his brother, his confidant, his friend. Fitzwilliam's absence from his life had been more and more difficult to endure. He had lost too much already to allow their impasse to last. In all his eight and twenty years Darcy had never felt so unsure, so unlike himself. And, he had never felt more the painful cost of the lack of loving parents to guide him through these uncharted waters. First peace with his wife—he owed her an apology, a groveling, painful repentance—and then peace with his cousin. Life was too short, too nasty, and too brutal to allow it to be solitary as well.

Ignoring the ache in his head and stomach, he went downstairs. He silently passed his aunt and uncle breakfasting in the day room and went directly out the door. The fresh air acted as a coolant to his flaming throat and eyes. He gagged down the curdled drink. Coughing he scanned his surroundings. Pemberley sprawled before him in all its glory. The fields glistened as gold strands in the dusty rays of sunshine, glowing dark as a cloud scudded overhead in the otherwise clear sky. Elizabeth must be out there somewhere, strolling and musing along a lush path. Since he had first met her he had known of her love for walking, how she sought tranquility in the exercise. He decided to try some of the haunts within the grounds that he knew had become her favorite. He began down a path that was one of his favorites, as well as hers, recalling with a small smile the first time they had rambled down this road together—the smile fading when he thought of how far they had traveled since that day, never really understanding one another.

The path meandered around the lake and most of it curved along the adjoining stream, deeply shaded by overhanging trees. Despite its prominence, it was rarely used because it included some steep inclines, where the trees thinned out and opened up into wide vistas. But if one had the energy and stamina, all the peaks were well worth the effort for the view they offered of the surrounding countryside. As winding as it was, the path also allowed for some privacy. It was very difficult to see too far behind or too far in front of where a traveler stood. The alcohol began to sweat off his brow as he sped up his pace, eager to find his bride, to observe her with the knowledge that in spite of everything, she loved him.

Darcy cut off from the main path, braving brambles and pokey hedges to shorten his walk. Right, left, right, underneath a broken tree limb, and then he halted suddenly. Two voices floated out from the unseen path. Brushing aside a dangle of moss, he inched forward and perceived Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam. Something about the intensity of their voices stopped Darcy from making his presence known. He knew they could not see him through the green hangings of the thicket. Curious he watched.

"You should continue on your way, Fitzwilliam."

"Pardon my insistence, but I cannot. I know this opportunity will not present itself again."

"Then perhaps you should not consider it an opportunity."

"I have to, Elizabeth—"

"Sir…" Darcy heard the warning in her soft plea.

"You will not permit me to speak my heart. Will you at least let me help you? You haven't any idea how seeing you cry has affected me. Please is there no assistance I can offer you?"

"I fear that any assistance you offer me would only make matters worse, much worse, Fitzwilliam."

The colonel paused and Darcy wondered if now were the moment to alert them of his presence, but his cousin's next words rooted his feet to the ground. Fitzwilliam's face flushed with passion and he took a step closer to Elizabeth.

"Forgive me madam, but it will not do. I know I should not tell you this, that I have sworn not to tell you. Darcy is my brother, but perhaps this is the only way to end my suffering, to put to rest my admiration for you. I love you, Elizabeth. I have loved you since we met at Rosings and I have cursed the day I chose luxury over your possible love. I knew I admired you, enjoyed your company, but when I learned that Darcy had actually proposed—I learned that I loved you. And despite my manifold efforts to turn that love into brotherly affection, it grows and grows into something infinitely more dear and terrible."

Elizabeth's hand clutched at her neck, her cheeks rouge. "Fitzwilliam, you must not say such things. You will hate yourself for doing so and come to despise Darcy and me."

Fitzwilliam looked to the side, his eyes downward. "I cannot hate myself more than I already do Elizabeth. Nothing you say can hurt me more than loving you and knowing I shall never call you my own, knowing I am betraying my cousin's trust by loving you."

What happened next happened so quickly Darcy had no time to stop it from coming. Hidden, silent, frozen, he saw Elizabeth's hesitant hand touch his cousin's arm, her gaze warm with comfort. He saw Fitzwilliam's shoulders shudder from surprise, his head shoot up, and before Darcy could breathe, blink, move, he saw his cousin, his friend, his brother pull Elizabeth into a close embrace and kiss her.

Anger and shock jolted him from his secret vantage point. He stalked towards the two, aware but uncaring that Elizabeth had quickly pulled away or that Fitzwilliam was muttering his apologies into his palms, his hands masking his face. He crashed through the underbrush, cursing himself for watching the entire scene unfold. As he stormed out onto the path, Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam's faces instantly became leeched of light, of color. With one voice they cried out, "Darcy!"

Fitzwilliam stepped forward, his blue eyes wide with fear, his shame dark on his skin. "Darcy, it is entirely my fault. I am— "

"Enough, if you please," He raised his hand to silence his cousin. "You will leave my premise at once. You will go directly to the house, gather your things, and leave. You will talk to no one, not even your parents. I will make your excuses later."

"Darcy—"

"No, not another word. Leave, now."

Fitzwilliam's head barely moved as he nodded. With a quick bow, a breathless hush, he turned and fled. Darcy watched his retreating back, the sun glinting off his black coat and tried to regain his composure. His head still spun from last night's sinister revelry. He closed his eyes and sighed. Gratitude surged up amidst the rage, gratitude that this had not happened before last night's declaration. Opening his eyes, he turned to his wife.

Tears lined the rims of her eyes, her lips trembled, and her face was pale with fright. "I…I don't know what to say, William."

"There is nothing to be said, Lizzy. Not by you."

"Yes, there is. I love you, you know—"

"I do."

He watched a single tear fall from her eye and slide down her cheek. Slowly he lifted his hand to her face. She did not pull away or flinch at his closeness, and tenderly he glanced the tear away with his thumb.

"Let us take the long way back to the house," he said, offering her his arm.

Wordlessly she slipped her hand into his elbow and he steadied the beat of his pulse, calmed the tremor of his anger, and matched the length of his stride to hers.

The following weeks would be a land of untamed and unblazed territory through which Elizabeth and Darcy must tromp, trail, and, at times, stumble. It would be a jungle battlefield where they would attempt to not only set up camp, but create a civilization. Their own stubborn temperaments would inevitably hedge up the way before them, but for today, in the hour of this newest test, in the hour of Fitzwilliam's collapse, they would walk, arm in arm, and try to find a moment of peace in the shade of Pemberley's paths.

_Note: Confession: I'm a believer in Hobbes, more than Locke. But if you've read my stuff, that's probably pretty evident. Thanks for the reviews, and thanks for the comments about this Lizzy. I do think if put in different circumstances, darker ones, this would be Elizabeth Bennet. My experimentation with D&E as personifications of intellectual movements is hopefully still coming across, hence at this point they have somewhat reversed their roles. (E-Enlightnment, D-Romanticism). Cheers!_


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